


cherry, darling

by honeyvenom



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad Boy Richie Tozier, Bullying, Dark Richie Tozier, Dom/sub Undertones, Eddie works in a diner and wears a little apron and a little hat, Humiliation, M/M, Mean Richie Tozier, Sexuality Crisis, Teen Romance, Waiter Eddie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyvenom/pseuds/honeyvenom
Summary: Eddie has just started a new weekend job as a waiter at the Delicious Derry Diner, one he's hoping to keep secret from all the kids at school, when his former friend Trashmouth Tozier walks through the door. What he doesn't realize that afternoon, is that Richie plans on coming back every weekend. First to taunt Eddie and call him names, but then maybe for something else too.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 122
Kudos: 807





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie’s shift at the Delicious Derry Diner has just started when he hears the welcoming twinkle of the brass door bell. He adjusts his baby blue hat, makes sure his apron is tied securely, and turns to smile brightly at whoever’s walked in.

The greeting dies in his mouth when he sees who it is. Trashmouth Tozier. Shit.

“Sandy,” he whispers through the small window into the kitchen, at the blonde girl who works Saturdays with him. “Can you serve the guy who’s just come in?”

“Can’t, hun, sorry. Gotta help put out the pies when they’re ready.”

Eddie bites his lip. Richie has found a booth near the back of the diner where he’s lounging like a big cat. He’s got his leather jacket on today and his hair is a mess of dark curls that spill over his forehead. Damn it. Out of all the diners in Derry, why did he have to come to this one?

Julie, Eddie’s boss, sees him dawdling and comes over.

“Aren’t you going to serve that boy, Eddie? You know it’s policy to serve every customer within five minutes of them coming in.” 

And Eddie knows he can’t refuse. He’s only been here for two weeks and he needs this job. It’s the only thing that’ll get him out the house on weekends, and he can save up the money for college. It also beats bagging groceries or working at the pharmacy with that creep Mr Keene.

“Sure thing, Julie,” he chirps. “Was just checking that my laces were tied.”

“Just make sure he orders something,” Julie says, frowning over at Richie. “The boy looks like he could be trouble.”

 _You have no idea_ , he thinks sullenly.

Eddie grabs a menu and makes his way over to Richie. Richie grins widely as he watches him, his arms outstretched along the back of the booth. He gives a little wolf whistle when Eddie gets to his table.

“Richie, what are you doing here?” he hisses, shoving the menu in front of him. 

“Good morning to you too, Eds. And I’m hungry obviously.”

Eddie just glares at him. He knows Richie and that won’t be the only reason. Just because they used to be friends doesn’t mean Richie has innocent intentions.

Richie raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Aren’t you going to give me the proper Delicious Derry greeting? I’ve heard great things about the hospitality here.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder at Julie, who’s watching them closely. He needs to get this right. He plasters on a big fake smile as he turns back to Richie. 

“Hello and welcome to the Delicious Derry Diner. We’re the greatest diner in all of Maine with the richest coffee and sweetest pie you’ll ever have. How can I help you today?”

“Very nice,” Richie purrs and his eyes dip to Eddie’s shorts. The blue ones with the white trim that match his shirt and hat. Eddie wants the ground to swallow him up. If the kids at school find out about this he’ll never live it down.

“Are you going to order anything or have you just come in to make fun of me?”

Richie leans back as if considering this. He looks good, Eddie thinks reluctantly. He’s still a gangly giraffe but over the last couple of years his face has gone from a bit stupid to striking, with sharp cheekbones and full lips. And at some point he swapped his awful glasses for ones that actually fit properly.

“Are you on the menu?” Richie asks.

“Richie!" He looks around to make sure no one’s heard them. “No, obviously not. And can you stop gawking at me like that.”

“But you’re so fucking cute.“ He juts his chin at Eddie’s uniform. "Seriously, you get paid to wear that?”

Eddie flushes at the implication that he’s just here to be pretty. “No, dickwad, they pay me to serve fuckheads like you.”

Richie makes a tutting sound with his tongue. “Such sass. Don’t know if I’ll be able to tip with an attitude like that. Shall I tell your boss about the mouth on her lovely little waiter? I bet she’ll be shocked. Won’t look good for you to be getting complaints so early on.”

“Richie, you wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

And Eddie knows he wouldn’t. Richie likes to play rough, and he hangs out with a group of stoner dickheads now, but he’s not that cruel. At least Eddie doesn’t think so. But Eddie can’t risk it. He needs this job.

“Fine, please tell me what you’d like and I’ll get it right away.”

“Read me the menu.”

“What?”

“Come on, toots. I don’t got all day.”

“Read your own goddamn menu!” he spits. 

“Excuse me,” Richie calls, looking over Eddie’s shoulder toward the counter.

“Okay, okay,” he says frantically, hands scrambling at the menu.

And he does. He reads Richie everything on the menu, from every variant of coffee to every way you can have your eggs to every flavour of pie. His cheeks flush red behind the plastic and he makes sure his face is hidden as he dutifully reads off every item. 

When he finally gets to the end, he peeks over the top of the menu to find Richie staring at him with one of those stupid, toothy grins on his face.

“So what would you like?”

"Hmmm,” Richie lolls his head back to look at the ceiling, and Eddie can’t help but stare at the long, pale arch of his throat. At his bobbing Adam’s apple. The sharp curve of his collarbone above his white t-shirt.

He makes Eddie wait, as he hums and haws, takes the menu from him to look over it again. Eddie shifts, fingers twisting at the front of his apron.

“I’ll have the eggs and bacon,” Richie says finally, snapping the menu closed. “I want cherry pie, too. And coffee.”

“Do you want any cream and sugar with that?”

Richie grins again, a slower one this time, as he tilts his head at Eddie.

“Pretty sure I have enough sugar right here.”

Eddie feels his cheeks go cartoon-fire red. 

“Are you sure you’re not on the menu? Not even as a special?”

“No, Richie.” 

Richie makes a disappointed noise. “Shame. At least the view’s nice.”

“I’ll be back with your coffee,” Eddie stutters, reaching out to take the menu. Except Richie whisks it away with one of his stupidly long arms.

"What is it now?”

“I lied when I said I just came in to eat. I wanted to see you.”

Eddie’s stomach swoops. He hasn’t hung out with Richie in years. Can’t remember the last time they had a conversation when Richie wasn’t loudly calling him princess, or pushing into his space and telling him to hand over his notes from class. Even though Richie is a low-key genius and wouldn’t need any help if he actually bothered turning up.

“You could just talk to me at school.”

“I could, but you’re always with those dweebs from band.”

“They’re my friends, Trashmouth, and they’re nice.”

“ _Nice_ ,” Richie scoffs. “Since when did you ever care about nice? Sounds boring.”

“It’s not boring, Richie. Just because we don’t ditch school to get high or think fun is hijacking people’s cars for a joyride.”

Richie hums, finally lets Eddie take the menu from him. Their fingers brush for a split second, and Eddie’s chest clenches.

“I hear you still hang out with Bill sometimes,” Richie murmurs.

“Yeah, sometimes. Why?”

“Guy’s an asshole.”

Of course he'd say that. Things have never been the same between them since that summer. Since Bill struck Richie and the others had to break them apart before they killed each other. Not that Eddie thinks about it much. Not without getting a phantom ache in his arm, or zoning out as he stares at the scar on his hand.

“Heard he thinks he’s the next Tennessee Williams.”

“Bill’s talented, Richie. He got a short story published in a national competition. And he’s getting a full scholarship to study English.”

Eddie pauses. “Do you see any of the others?”

“Eh, not really. I keep in touch with Marsh. Talk to her on the phone sometimes and she sends me letters.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. He hasn’t seen or spoken to Beverly since that summer she moved away. “Beverly? Really? How is she?”

“Better now she’s not living with her evil prick of a dad. She wants to go into fashion, makes all her own clothes.”

“Cool,” Eddie says, and he means it. He’d love to see Bev again. Maybe if she'd stayed she could have helped the Losers remain friends. Slowed the glue from dissolving between all of them. It’s true Eddie sees Bill sometimes, and every now and then does his homework with Stan, but it’s never the same. Not like it was before. They would have died for each other; now they barely stop to say hello.

“Hey,” he says, just thinking of something. “How did you know I work here? I never see anyone else from school come in.”

“I keep my eye on you, Kaspbrak.”

“You do?” 

Which doesn’t make any sense. Richie doesn’t talk to Eddie, doesn’t even interact with him unless he’s cooing nonsense at him at school as all his grungy asshole friends look on and laugh. _Nice shorts, Kaspbrak_ , or, _Heard you showed your flute a real nice time last night. Trying to make me jealous?_

“Yeah. And not like I’m complaining.” Richie’s eyes trail across Eddie’s thighs again. “Heard they have the juiciest peach pie here.” 

And Richie’s being a jerk. He knows that. But he can’t stop the way his stomach tightens at his words. The way it always does whenever Richie calls out to him at school. Can’t help how hot his face gets. How easily rattled he is by everything he does.

“I’ll, erm, go put your order in now.”

“Thanks, doll.” Richie winks at him, his smile as slow and molten as hot honey. 

Eddie walks away, cursing himself as he stumbles slightly. He glances back to see Richie watching him. Wonders if he has time to go out back and scream into his apron before he has to serve Richie his food.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie thought maybe Richie coming to the diner had all been a dream. Until Richie walks through the door again.

It's nearing the end of a busy shift at the diner, and Eddie is hiding out in the kitchen waiting for the next batch of pies to be ready. He's taking a breather from being on his feet all day, but it's also an excuse to watch their cook Leroy in action. It's an art form the way Leroy makes pies: the way he rolls out the pastry with such nimble fingers, how he only uses the brightest, punchiest seasonal fruit. The long table next to him is an abundance of blueberries, peaches and apples, and as he scatters midnight-purple berries into a pie shell, he tells Eddie all about the science of getting the perfect ratio of crust to filling. Eddie watches avidly, marvelling at how a man as big as him can have such delicate hands.

He's about to pipe up and request a strawberry galette for the end of his shift, which he knows is cheeky but hey, Leroy owes him for delivering those pies on the way home last weekend. It's a give-take kinda relationship. He's standing there thinking dreamily about the possibility of the galette, how the burst of strawberry will bleed into the edges of the flaky pastry, when Sandy pokes her head through the window separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner, her bleached hair platinum-blonde under the kitchen's harsh glare. 

“Eddie," she says, "that boy’s here again.”

“Hmmm?” Eddie tears his eyes away from Leroy's mastery, head filled with fantasies of a strawberry ice cream pie with a salty pretzel crust.

“The boy, you know, the devil in the leather jacket.”

He frowns at her, his strawberry reverie quickly melting away. Devil in the- oh no.

“Trashmouth,” he says, eyes clenching shut. God, what could Richie possibly want now?

"That's the ticket," Sandy says. She looks over her shoulder toward the back of the diner and Eddie peeks his head around to look too.

And there he is. Richie Tozier sitting in the back booth again, spread out like a snoozing lion in the sun. Like he owns the place. He's slung his leather jacket carelessly on the seat next to him, and his shoulders are bare in his sleeveless white t-shirt. Highlighting just how much he's filled out over the last year. How lean muscle now pops everywhere he was once rake-thin. Eddie swallows thickly at the sight of him, the span of his shoulders pale against the inky shock of his black hair, and he tries to hide behind Sandy as much as he can before Richie spots him.

"Erm, do you mind taking his order so I can wait back here?"

Sandy makes an apologetic face at him. "He's refusing to order unless you do it."

"What?"

"I know. Little shit."

And that's the last thing Eddie wants. Not since last weekend, since that weird conversation that had shaken Eddie like a jar of pennies, leaving his thoughts loose and rattled all week. Richie with all his questions about Eddie being on the menu, his comments about Bill, and how his eyes had raked over Eddie's uniform. But he knows Richie. More than he wants to. And Richie's not going to leave until he gets what he wants.

"Do you want to tell Julie?" Sandy asks.

Eddie's tempted, but he knows he can't. Richie's not technically doing anything wrong and besides, the Delicious Derry Diner had a reputation for the best pies and the best hospitality. Julie wasn't going to like it if Eddie came to her complaining about customers, she might start thinking he had an attitude. And Eddie really needs this job. He can't risk losing it now, not when he'd just started to save up. When college was just a year away, the thoughts of getting away so tantalising he can almost taste it, frothing on his tongue like cotton candy at the county fair.

"It's okay," he says, smoothing down his apron, his stomach in knots. "I'll go." He catches himself before he can smooth down his hair too, feeling like a moron. What did it matter how his hair looked when he went to serve Richie? The boy literally drank his own nosebleed once.

At the register, he picks up a menu, but Sandy stops him with a hand on his elbow.

"Sugar," she says, her eyes wide beneath the blue eyeshadow. "Be careful. I knew boys like him growing up. Bruce was one of those boys."

Bruce was Sandy's husband. Or he had been, until he went to prison the year before for car jacking. He was violent too, she admitted to Eddie one night when they were closing up the diner. There was something unhinged inside him, Sandy had said. It didn't matter what she was doing: whether she was going to work, getting her hair done, seeing her mother... he had to know everything she did when she left the house. She was also forbidden to see other men, even her cousins. If Bruce even caught her exchanging one word with another man, something came out in him. Something dark behind his eyes she'd never seen before. A look that made her think of wolves in fairytales, the ones that preyed on young girls.

She tells him that last part smoking a cigarette behind the diner as Eddie strapped on his rollerblades to go home. And Eddie didn't say anything, because what could ever make that better? But he had hugged her before he left, wondering how anyone could hurt someone as nice as her.

"I'll be okay," Eddie says, taking Sandy's hand and squeezing it. "We were childhood friends, I've known him forever."

Sandy makes a face at him. "I don't know, Eddie," she says, "the people we know best are usually the ones who hurt us in the end," and Eddie wants to ask her what she means, but she's already turned away to greet a family who have just walked into the diner. 

"Howdy!" she calls out with a sunny smile, in that soft Texan drawl she still had. The one that made all the boys blush.

 _You can take the girl out of Texas, but there'll always be a little cowgirl left in her_ , she had told Eddie when he'd just started. She had winked at him when she said it too, and Eddie knew if he'd been like other boys he would have quivered in his shoes at her pretty face and soft hair.

But Eddie wasn't like other boys. He wasn't like anyone.

He leaves Sandy to serve the family as he grabs the menu and makes his way over to Richie. Their eyes meet across the diner, and Eddie feels his chest clench. He has a feeling Richie's eyes have been on him the second he walked out of the kitchen. 

But it just didn't make any sense. Why was he here for the second weekend in a row, after years of hardly speaking to him? All Richie had done for the last two years was make fun of him whenever he could: for his shorts, his flute, for trying out for track despite how short he was. Like Eddie's entire existence was just one big walking, talking joke. And as he gets closer to Richie's table, his nerves fizzle away to make room for something white-hot and crackling. A feeling he associates a little with rage. Like the rock fight with Bowers, or when he'd found out about the placebos.

By the time he gets to Richie's table, the menu is almost crumpled in his fist.

“What do you want now?” he barks a little too loudly when he sees Richie's shit-eating grin, making a father and daughter seated two tables over turn to look at them in surprise. Eddie makes an apologetic face, before turning back to Richie. "Well?"

Richie arches an eyebrow at him, smile not faltering one bit. "Good afternoon to you too, Eds."

"I said what do you want? A second weekend in a row, really?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Yes! You can go to any diner in Derry, Richie, you don't have to come to this one just to bother me."

Richie leans back in the booth, an aggravating smirk curling around the edges of his lips. And Eddie doesn't like the look in his eyes. Like he can see through Eddie. Under his clothes, under his skin, everything. Like he can see his hidden heart under its rib cage.

"It's sweet you think I came here today to see you, Eddie. I'm actually here for the pecan pie."

Eddie's jaw clenches, mouth twisted up into a knot. "You're a liar."

"Hey, maybe I just like it here," Richie counters, as he gazes up at Eddie from beneath his bangs, arms flexing where he's got them crossed over his chest. "It's cosy. Get my own booth, practically my own section of the diner."

"That's because no one wants to sit near you. Because everyone knows you're a menace."

"Been telling people about me, huh? I'm flattered, Eddie, really. You make me tingly all over." He jerks his chin at the menu in Eddie's hands, ignoring the way Eddie splutters at him like a kitten choking on milk. "Are you going to give me that menu or what?"

So Eddie does, slamming it down onto the table with a little too much force, making the cutlery rattle in their glass. 

"Read it and tell me what you want then. And I’m not reading the menu out to you again so you can forget that.”

Richie gives a low whistle, another grin breaking out under Eddie's glare. The kind of grin with too many teeth.

“Such a spitfire, Eds. They should keep you in the kitchen, to fire up the ovens. But then we’d all miss out on this treat wouldn’t we?” He waves a hand in Eddie's direction as he says it, like Eddie's a piece of chocolate cake that's been made to savour.

"Just tell me what you want," Eddie says, trying to ignore the heat he feels flooding his face.

Instead, Richie lets his gaze wander down Eddie's uniform again: the baby-blue shirt and shorts, with the apron cinched tightly around his waist.

“Still can’t believe they pay you to wear that.”

“They don’t pay me to-”

“Of course they do." Richie's eyes make a sweep of the people sitting around the diner. "Why else do you think all these old men are here? They could be at home in front of the TV right now, or playing poker with all the other dads they know. But they're here. And it's a pretty good service for the price. They get to drink coffee, eat flapjacks," Richie trails his eyes down Eddie's legs, "check out the local terrain."

Eddie always feels slightly chilly in the diner, with his arms and legs bare under the blast of the air conditioning, but Richie's gaze feels like ice cubes, making him break out in goosebumps. Like he's just dragged the tip of a feather down his naked skin with every swipe of his eyes.

Eddie shifts uncomfortably. "This is a family restaurant, Richie. It's not- it's not like that, okay?"

"Sure. You and Blondie over there were definitely hired for your interpersonal skills."

"Her name's Sandy, asshole, not Blondie," Eddie bites back, fighting the urge to hit Richie over the head.

And he would have when they were younger. Wouldn't have thought twice about it. But things were different then, back when they had exchanged touch just as easily as they ever exchanged words. Like when Richie would lean in to lick his ice cream cone and Eddie would push his face away with a shrill shriek, or when he'd climb on Richie like a koala demanding a piggyback because his feet were tired, or straddle him in the hammock when he refused to make room for Eddie. But he hasn't touched Richie in years, and he isn't going to now.

"Uh huh, sure," is all Richie says, like he couldn't give a shit what Sandy's name was.

Eddie sighs, disappointment rising inside him like the tide. But what had he been expecting anyway? Things hadn’t been any different at school that week. Eddie thought they might be after Richie had come to the diner. That Richie might want to talk to him like a normal person, but it was like it had all been a dream. First thing on Monday Richie was his usual asshole self, catcalling Eddie as he walked past him and his friends outside of school, the group of them passing a cigarette around, some girl hanging off Richie's arm as she laughed at one of his dumb voices.

"Get your flute out and give us a private show, Kaspbrak!" Richie had called out, and the sound of their hyena laugh made his ears burn.

Then on Thursday, Eddie had been talking with Bill and Stan by his locker. They didn't really hang out anymore, but Eddie still liked catching up with them when they bumped into each other. He was in the middle of asking Bill how baseball practice had been going, when Richie was suddenly in their space, shoving himself against Bill's shoulder so hard as he walked past that Bill stumbled and dropped all his books.

"Get yourself together, Denbrough," Richie had said, like he hadn't done anything. "Didn't know you were such a retard."

"Fuck you, Richie," Bill had muttered as he started picking his books up, notes from his last class littered across the floor like fallen snow.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"Just forget it."

Richie glanced at Stan, who was glaring coal-hot daggers at him. "What are you looking at?" he asked as he cocked his head, reminding Eddie of the predatory animals he saw in nature documentaries sometimes.

Stan went to say something, but stopped when he felt Eddie's hand tugging the back of his shirt. Richie was a ticking time bomb these days. And while the boys who once made up the Losers Club were usually at the brunt of his sneering sarcasm, one day Eddie feared that would tip over and they'd see the other side of him. The one that had left a school friend of theirs, James Given, hospitalised, after Richie had pushed him to the ground on the way home from school and stepped on his hand until he heard the bone break with a sickening crunch.

"Nothing," Stan said instead, all the bluster bleeding out of him as he looked down at his shoes.

"Thought not."

Richie's eyes slid over to Eddie, and Eddie tensed all over, waiting for the inevitable barb on the tip of Richie's tongue. But Richie just gave Eddie a little wink, a wink which shot through him like a lightning bolt, before walking away without another word.

“Can you please remind me how we were ever friends with that guy?” Stan had asked as disappeared round the corner.

"Shared madness," Bill said from the floor, where he was gathering up his notes.

“He came to the diner I work at on Saturday," Eddie said.

Stan turned to him, a frown etched between his eyes. “Why?”

Eddie shrugged, pulling his backpack up his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

"Is he giving you shit, Eddie?" Bill had asked, arms now full with his books again. Except his notes were all crumpled and out of order.

"No, it's fine, really," because Eddie didn't want any confrontation between Bill and Richie. Not again. "Let me tidy your notes up, Bill."

Eddie blinks the memory out of his eyes. He's about to tell Richie to hurry the hell up and place his order when he freezes at the look on Richie's face. Feels fresh goosebumps break out at how dark his eyes are beneath his lashes as he stares at Eddie. Something unspoken heating the air around them. Were Richie's eyes always that dark? They were almost black, an inky purple-blue, the colour of twilight bleeding into night. The goosebumps prickle at him under the cold blare of the air conditioning, each one as sharp as a tiny prick left by a knife.

He twists his fingers into his apron. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"You know, you were a real asshole to Bill on Thursday. Pushing him like that at school."

There's a beat of silence, and then Richie sneers at him. His lips curl up to show his upper teeth, and Eddie's breath catches at the sharp glint of his canines. He thinks of the shark tooth a boy at school brought in for Show & Tell once, how Eddie had stared transfixed at its cold, white curve.

"Seriously? You're really going to give me shit about that?"

"You don't have to be so rough with him all the time."

Richie rolls his eyes. "Denbrough can handle it. He's a fucking writer, right? It'll be good fodder for his first bestseller. How the bad boys at school gave him hell. How he rose above it." Richie's eyes slant slyly. "As if I'm the worst clown he's ever come up against."

Eddie knows what he's getting at, but he doesn't say anything. Because he can't talk about that stuff, it makes him feel woozy whenever he does. Most of it's hazy now, that summer, but certain moments bring it into sharp contrast, making him feel like he's been hit in the head.

He gestures to the menu, feeling faint suddenly. "Have you decided what you want then?"

Richie makes a humming sound in the back of his throat. "What would you get?"

"I don't know," Eddie sighs. "The pie is always good. You could check out the specials. Sometimes I'll just get a strawberry milkshake or-"

Richie laughs, and Eddie's words stop dead at the sound of it. It's been so long since he heard Richie laugh. A real laugh, like the ones he used to make when he'd found something truly delightful, rather than one of the mean-spirited laughs he was used to hearing from him now.

"Of course you would," Richie says, shaking the wild brush of bangs out of his eyes. "Strawberry Shortcake, right?"

And a memory of them as children hits Eddie. Richie saying Shortcake as they wade through the sewers, reaching out for him as he almost slips in the water. _I've got you, Shortcake_ , he had said as he cuddled Eddie close. Their heartbeats beating in tandem as their small chests pressed together in the filthy water, and Eddie had been so frightened but in the moment he pressed his hot cheek to Richie's neck, he'd felt whole.

Eddie swallows the memory down, the image of them huddling together in the sewers hitting him right in the throat where it catches with tears.

Richie notices the shift in his expression. "What is it?"

"Nothing. Can you just hurry up? I have other people I need to serve."

Richie continues to survey him with that sharp, assessing look. "Can I ask you something?" he asks.

"No."

"How much do you make working here?"

"What? Why?"

"Just curious."

"It's none of your business."

"I bet it's not a lot. So why don't we make a deal-"

"Richie," Eddie says, not liking where this is heading. A deal with Richie was like making a deal with Loki.

But Richie ignores him. "If you're good to me, I'll give you the biggest damn tip you've ever had."

Eddie scoffs. Richie never had more than a few dollars on him, had always wasted it at the arcade trying to beat his own personal score on Street Fighter when they were supposed to spend it together on sweets or get tickets to the movies.

"Oh yeah? What are you going to tip me? Two dollars? Gee whiz, I'm so impressed, you big spender."

"You think I'm lying? Okay," Richie reaches into his jacket, and Eddie looks away to stop his eyes tracing the line of his biceps. But his eyes shoot back when Richie brings out a tightly rolled wad of cash. Eddie feels his eyes go as big as dinner plates. It was a huge roll of money, held together with a rubber band. How much could that even be? Hundreds? And where would Richie have got all of that?

Richie waves the roll of money in front of his dazed eyes. “I’ve got the dough, see?"

"How did you get that, Richie?"

Richie didn't have a job as far as Eddie knew. All he did was get high with his friends at the old junkyard and drink in the woods on Saturday nights. Never in a zillion years would Richie be mature or responsible enough to hold down a job, and not a job that would ever pay _that much_.

Eddie purses his lips at him. "Did you steal it?"

"No, for fuck's sake," Richie huffs. "I earned it. Fair and square."

"How? Since when do you have a job?"

"I have a small gig on the side. I make deliveries, that sort of thing."

"Deliveries?" Eddie asks dubiously. "Like packages?"

"Something like that, yeah. The point is if you're good to me, I'll pay big. And then you can go home and put it in your pink piggy bank or under your pillow or whatever you want. I'll give you a hundred dollars, how does that sound? You can finally save up for Barbie's Dream House."

Eddie just stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open. Because a hundred dollars? Eddie's never had a tip even a quarter as big as that. Doesn't even think he's ever held that much money in his hands.

"Don't be mean, Richie," he says quietly.

"I'm not being mean, Eddie, I mean it," Richie says. "If you're good for me, I'll give you a hundred dollars. I cross my heart and hope to die."

Eddie blinks at him. He doesn't trust Richie, not one bit. And he's known Richie since he was five-years-old. He knows that there's always a catch. It would be just like him to dangle something shiny like this in front of Eddie just for him to dash it away at the last second.

Richie gives him an impatient look. "Does that sound good or not?"

Eddie's eyes flutter down so far he feels his eyelashes brush his cheeks. "Yes," he says quietly because the thought of having that much money in his hands at the end of the day is just too good to pass up. But even as he says it, he feels something like shame flush through him. Mama had always told him to never beg for money. Even if he was desperate for it. Because Kaspbraks were better than that. They weren't weak.

His eyes flicker up to see a lazy smile spreading across Richie's face like untamed lichen. 

"I thought so. So here's what I want: I want the biggest bacon cheeseburger you have, with fries and onion rings. And I want a banana split. I want you to bring it over, and I want you to serve me the entire time I'm here, got it?"

"Got it," Eddie mumbles, his palms suddenly clammy where he's got them pressed to his sides. "Do you want soda too?" he asks without thinking. Because Richie always wanted soda when they were little. Had guzzled tonnes of it down while Eddie complained that he was going to ruin his teeth, even as he was pulling the straw away from Richie's mouth to have a drink of it too.

Richie looks at him for a moment. "Yeah," he says finally. "I want that cherry soda you like."

Eddie just nods, grabbing the menu from him and making a beeline back to the register.

Back in the safe haven of Leroy's kitchen and the fruity aroma of his pies, Eddie puts in the order and asks if Leroy can whip up a banana split pronto. But bigger than usual, like ginormous. And it needs to come with chocolate ice cream because he knows Richie loves chocolate. And the darker the better because Richie liked his sweet things slightly bitter.

Leroy laughs at the huge order, dusting his floury hands on his apron. "What the hell, kid? Are you feeding a pack of wolves out there?"

"No, just one," Eddie glowers, "and he's a real hell hound."

When everything's ready, the banana split assembled like a miniature palace of bananas and whipped cream, Richie's burger oozing pink in its greasy wrapper, Sandy catches him as he reverses out of the kitchen.

"All good, honey?" Sandy asks, before eyeing the heaving tray. "What in the blazes? He's really treating you like his little servant, huh?"

"Tell me about it. I just want it down on record that I hate him."

"Yeah he stinks," Sandy says before lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Hey, let's throw rocks at him when he leaves and slash his tyres, deal?"

"Deal," Eddie says, smiling. Sandy always found a way to make things better. She may have been 10 years older than him, but she felt like a kindred spirit. A bit like how Beverly had felt when she still lived in Derry and met Eddie by the lake on the weekends. When they'd talk about what their parents had done to them, and Bev would stroke her hand through Eddie's hair. She'd always been there for him.

Back at Richie's table he serves him silently, placing everything on the table as Richie watches him.

"Now isn't this nice? Maybe I should tempt you with money more often."

"Stop it, Richie," he says, a line of heat zinging under his skin.

"Why should I? It's nothing to be ashamed of. Makes me wonder what you'd be willing to do if I doubled it."

Eddie feels himself flush heavier, Richie's words dripping with implications he didn't want to think about. "I wouldn't do anything. Can I go now?"

"Not yet. I want you to sit here with me while I eat it."

Richie wanted him to do what? Eddie looks between Richie and the food. That was going to take forever. No way was he going to sit there like an idiot and watch Richie eat. And what would Julie think, seeing him hanging out with customers?

"You're joking, right?"

"Not really, no."

"Well tough luck. In case you haven't noticed I actually have a job to do. I'll be back later."

He picks up the tray, walking away as quickly as he can, until he hears the, "Eddie wait," from behind him.

Eddie freezes, turning to look at Richie over his shoulder. "What is it now, Richie?"

Richie doesn't say anything. Instead he picks up his drink, and, eyes locked with Eddie's, tips it upside down, drenching the table in cola.

"Oops," he says, looking anything but sorry. And Eddie watches, frozen in horror, as the soda spreads across the table like a downpour, drenching its entire surface and spilling to the floor. Eddie's head shoots up and his insides boil at Richie's silent, laughing eyes.

"You asshole!"

Richie just leans back into the booth. "Aren't you going to clean it up?" he asks pleasantly. "I'd hate to have to complain."

And Eddie's on the cusp of blowing up at Richie. To say screw the money and tell him to fuck off right now. To get the fuck out of the diner and never come back, like he should have when Richie first walked in. But what's when he hears Julie from across the diner.

"Eddie? Is everything okay?" she calls over, and Eddie peeks at her nervously, seeing her eyeing the whole juxtaposition. At the flood of cola. At Richie sitting there with that smile on his face. At Eddie not doing anything. Sandy stands behind her, mouthing _shit_ at Eddie.

"It's okay, Julie, just a spillage!" Eddie calls back, his voice a little too shrill. He shoots Richie another glare as he tugs a clean cloth of his pocket.

"God, what is your fucking problem?" he hisses, as he leans across the table to mop frantically at the cola. Richie doesn't say anything, just leans forward and watches Eddie as he eats his fries, looking like he's about to laugh his guts out. And Eddie's about to tell him what a fucking prick he is when he stops, realising suddenly just how close they are. So close their faces would almost be touching if he turned his head.

At this proximity, Eddie can't help but notice how much Richie's changed over the last few years. He used to be such a weird-looking kid. But he's like a painting that's been refined, all of his rough edges smoothed out: his jet-black hair curling at the ends, the cheekbones Eddie only ever saw on models in fashion magazines, hollowing his cheeks; the full lips, the creamy white skin. And he knew he wasn't the only one at school who had noticed. Not by the way girls giggled and whispered as Richie walked by in his leather jacket. Even despite the stupid glasses he still wore.

He's trying to focus on cleaning the table as best he can when Richie murmurs, "Sorry about that, baby, I'm real clumsy."

The "baby" punches Eddie in the heart and stomach. It's a pain he hasn't felt since that summer he fell through the ceiling and broke his arm. He throws the wet cloth down on the tray, ignoring the way the floor sticks to his tennis shoes, and walks away without another word to Richie. Even though he feels Richie's eyes on him the entire time, can feel the way his mocking grin splits his face clean in half.

As soon as he's dumped the tray back in the kitchen, he escapes to the employee bathroom out back, where he bends over the sick and splashes cold water on his face, dying at how pink and mottled his cheeks look in the mirror. "God, get it the fuck together, Eddie," he says to his reflection, buying himself another few minutes to apply his cherry chapstick and retie his apron where it came undone leaning over the table.

Back out front, he meets Sandy's sympathetic eyes at the register, but doesn't have time to talk to her because there's an old lady sitting nearby who needs to be served. After waiting on a couple of rowdy families with young, tear-stained children screaming for waffles, Eddie glances over to see Richie's somehow already finished all his food. The barbarian, Eddie can't help but think, as he tells one mother about the blueberries pancakes they can make for their toddler. But his jaw almost hits the floor when he hears a whistle behind him. Eddie looks around and sees Richie clicking his fingers at him, gesturing to his empty plate. Eddie glares back at him, feeling a surge of anger again. God, he hated him _so much_.

"Are you seriously finished already?" Eddie asks when he makes his way over. "How did you even eat all that so fast?"

Richie pats his flat stomach. "I'm a growing boy, Eds."

Eddie rolls his eyes. Richie was the tallest boy in their year at over six foot, he didn't need to grow anymore, thanks very much. Not while Eddie felt like he hadn't grown at all since they were 12 and every single boy towered over him, even ones who were two years younger than him.

Richie's eyes suddenly grow serious. “So do you want your tip?”

"Oh, so I'm still eligible, am I?"

"Sure, you did your part, Eddie. You were really sweet for me."

Eddie doesn't say anything. Doesn't think he can with the way his throat's closed up.

But Richie just taps his fingers on the table. “Are you going to ask me nicely?”

Eddie chews on his bottom lip, humiliation making his cheeks burn red.

“Come on, Eds" Richie teases, grin like a razor. "I know you need it. All you gotta do is say those two little words."

“Please, Richie," he says, staring down at his fingers where they're twisting in the front of his apron.

"Please what? And look at me when you say it."

So Eddie does, looking Richie in the eye as he says, "Please give me a tip, Richie."

Richie grabs the roll of money at his side and peels a single note out of it, making a slow show of it for Eddie, who's practically buzzing on the spot wanting this to be over. He holds it out between a finger and thumb but doesn't extend it to Eddie. "Come and take it then."

"Thank you," Eddie says, cheeks flaming. Except when his fingertips graze the note, Richie's other hands shoots out and grabs his wrist. Eddie gasps. He instantly tries to pull away, but Richie's hand is like a vice and he squeezes Eddie's wrist harder when he tries to move away.

"Come here," Richie says, tugging him closer to the table.

"Richie, stop-"

"Shut up."

And for some reason, Eddie does, letting himself be pulled closer to Richie, until he's half bent over the table. 

"Don't talk to me again about Bill Denbrough," Richie says in a low, quiet voice.

"I'm not-"

"I said shut up, Eddie."

He doesn't sound angry, but the deathly serious tone makes Eddie shudder all the same.

"Don't act like he's some innocent fucking lamb being brought to the slaughter, okay?" Richie says, as he leans in close. "When you and I know he's a fucking phoney." Up this close, Richie's eyes are almost black and Eddie thinks of what Sandy said, about wolves in the forest. The ones that preyed on innocent girls on their way home from grandma's house, their bellies empty, fanged mouths yawning wide.

"Tell me you get it," Richie says, squeezing until the bones in Eddie's wrist grind together.

"Okay, Richie, I got it," he says, wincing at the pain, his wrist so tiny it's completely swallowed up by Richie's hand.

Richie's eyes dip slowly from Eddie's eyes to his lips. Eddie sucks in a breath, but before he can say anything Richie's dropped his wrist, leaving the 100-dollar note nestled in Eddie's hand. Eddie pulls away from the table so fast he stumbles, heart pounding as he tries to catch his breath.

"I hope you enjoy it," Richie says as he gathers up his jacket. He motions to Eddie's face. "Maybe use some of that to buy some sunscreen, yeah? Think you've broken out in a burn." And oh god, Eddie had forgotten how pink his face looked in the mirror.

Richie slides out from the booth, and shrugs into his jacket with a lazy stretch, his flash of anger completely gone. Eddie watches as he gets a cigarette out of his pocket and tucks it behind his ear. He's so tall, Eddie barely meets his shoulder; his shoulders so wide he could probably bend down and pick Eddie up if he wanted. But Eddie doesn't think about that. Doesn't think about anything but wanting Richie gone right now.

Richie interrupts his thoughts with a last slow grin.

"What do you keep smiling at?" Eddie says, curling his hands protectively around the 100-dollar bill.

"Nothing, just looking." He leans in close to Eddie, like he's about to tell him a secret. Gets his mouth next to Eddie's ear and murmurs, "See you at school, Shortcake," as his fingertips ghost across the skin just under this hem of Eddie's shorts. Eddie shudders at the feeling of it, the combination of the nickname and his touch making his stomach swoop, but by the time he finds the sense to push Richie away, he's already gone.

As he hears the front door close behind Richie, Eddie manages to finally swallow down the lump that's formed in his throat. Back at the register, he shows Sandy the 100-dollar note, who almost hollers at the sight of it, and insists on splitting it with her.

“Oh my god. He might be a devil but he’s got golden wings,” she breathes as she holds the note in front of her like Charlie Bucket. She looks at Eddie. "Honey, are you okay? You're trembling," she says, brushing her arm along Eddie's arm, where all the hairs stand on end.

But Eddie doesn't say anything, too busy looking outside where Richie's standing by his truck with the cigarette in his mouth, head tipped back, leather jacket falling off one shoulder. Thinks about his eyes and his shoulders, his hard grip around Eddie's wrist.

Eddie doesn't say anything else about Richie for the rest of his shift, though at moments he reaches down and brushes his fingers along the patch of skin that Richie touched. Where he feels burned. He says goodbye to Sandy when their shifts end and promises to call her the next day, before walking the 40 minutes home in a daze, his rollerblades laced together and strung over his shoulder.

Later that evening when he's in his bedroom after dinner, he lies on his bed and strokes his hand there again, stomach tightening at the memory of Richie's dark eyes. Wonders how Richie's fingers would have felt if he'd brushed them inwards, towards the insides of his thighs. He snatches his hand away before his mind can go any further, buying his face into his pillow. It's only then that he remembers the special strawberry galette he requested, but when he dashes across his room for it, finds it lying crumpled in a red, oozing puddle at the bottom of his bag.

"God damn you, Trashmouth," he whispers, voice soft like a prayer. "Just leave me the hell alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to continue this Twin Peaks-inspired verse for ages, ever since I wrote that first tiny instalment last year. The thought of cute waiter Eddie and mean bad boy Richie just wouldn't leave me alone. 
> 
> But I really want to dedicate this chapter to alicefelldowntheh0le on Tumblr, who has sent me so much encouragement and all these lovely ideas for this verse ever since the first chapter went up. I really hope she likes it.
> 
> Come say hi and talk to me about my fics on Tumblr at shortcake-kaspbrak!


	3. Chapter 3

Richie doesn’t come into the diner the following Saturday.

Eddie knows because he’s been looking out for him all day. Every time the doorbell twinkles, he looks around, always expecting to see Richie’s dark hair and leather jacket. See him loping in with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, that infuriating smile on his face. But it's never him.

Instead it’ll just be some family with a gaggle of children all screaming for ice cream sundaes, or a trucker driving through Derry wanting a pot of the strongest coffee they have. Though Eddie also thinks it’s an excuse to leer at Sandy, who takes no notice of their brutish flirting and plies them with pie instead. Sometimes the same men looked at Eddie too, watching him flit behind the counter with a hungry expression on their faces.

Eddie always ignores them though. It wasn't any different than the expressions some of the neighbourhood dads sometimes gave him when he was rollerskating down the street. It was a look sometimes he thought he understood, but he didn't like to think about it too closely.

He spends the day serving families, and it's a hellish one too. He half drenches the front of his uniform in cherry cola as he tries to balance a full tray of food from the kitchen, and in the afternoon has to bring out the mop to clean up a beige mixture of baby vomit and applesauce near the pie counter. At one point he feels a prickle at the back of his neck and he whirls around, fully expecting to see Richie sitting in his usual booth watching him, that devil expression on his face as his eyes drag up Eddie's legs. But he's not there. 

"You okay, sugar?" Sandy asks at one point, her eyes bright under layers of lavender eyeshadow and mascara. "You're awful jumpy today."

"I'm good," Eddie says, as he mixes a Shirley Temple for a little girl, trying to focus on the correct ratio of ginger ale and grenadine.

"At least that Trashmouth isn't in today, right?" Sandy says, bumping his elbow with hers.

"Yeah," Eddie says, trying to force a smile onto his face.

He doesn’t feel disappointed that Richie hasn't come in, but he doesn’t feel relieved either, and he hates himself a little for that.

Eddie had agreed to work the late shift that day. It meant more money, and it wasn't like he was doing anything with his Saturday nights anyway. A girl from band had mentioned going bowling with some other kids from school, but Eddie couldn't really muster up the energy for it. Being around other kids always meant having to pretend that everything was okay. That he wanted to be there. That he was having fun. That he wouldn't give anything to be with all the Losers again, like it was before. When Bev still lived here, and before Stan had started only wearing long-sleeved sweaters to hide the cuts on his arms. Before Richie had become someone none of them even recognised anymore.

It also meant getting to close the diner with Sandy, something he always enjoyed because it meant joking around and dancing to pop songs on the jukebox without Julie's disapproving gaze weighing them down.

The crowds thin out around 8pm, after the dinner rush, until all they have are some drifters hanging around drinking endless cups of coffee deep into the night. Eddie's pretty sure he catches one guy sneaking whisky into his coffee cup, but he doesn't say anything. The guy looks like he needs it, and Eddie isn't about to judge anyone for what gets them through their lonely evenings.

By the time 10pm comes round, the diner is completely empty. Sandy hangs out by the jukebox, bopping along to her favourite songs, as Eddie packs up the remaining pies and cakes and brings them out to the kitchen. He has his eye on the remainder of an apple-pecan pie, and thinks about eating that in his room later with a scoop of vanilla ice cream pilfered from the freezer when his mom isn't looking.

He's popping a candied cherry into his mouth from a jar on the counter, when he hears the door open behind him. 

Eddie turns, has “we’re about to close,” on the tip of his tongue, when he sees who it is.

Trashmouth.

The cherry bursts in Eddie's mouth. He swallows thickly.

Richie had his leather jacket on again. The black, bruised one. Sometimes he alternated it with a denim jacket when he was at school, but today it was the leather. His hair was the usual dark crow's nest - he'd let it grow longer and wilder since they were kids - and under the jacket he was wearing a white wife beater that stretched tight across his chest, revealing the shadowed hollows of his collarbone.

As Eddie blinks at him, trying his best to bounce back from the shock of seeing him, he notices the cut on Richie's bottom lip. It had clotted, but it looked angry, and there was fresh bruising around his mouth. Richie had obviously been hit in the face, and not that long ago

Somehow Eddie manages to unstick his mouth and say, "You can't be here."

Richie glances at the clock behind Eddie's shoulder. "You don't close for 20 minutes," he says. "That's what it says on the sign outside."

"Well what do you want?"

Eddie doesn't mean for it to come out so harshly. But now that Richie's here, he doesn't want him to be. Doesn't think he can handle being around him with no one else in the diner. No one there to help drown out the way Richie makes him feel.

Richie gives a little laugh. "I was hoping for coffee if that sounds good."

"You can get coffee anywhere around here, Richie. There's a gas station across the road."

"I'm offended you think gas station coffee would be good enough for me, Eds."

"You once ate bugs when we were 10. I don't think you suddenly have standards."

Richie grins at him again, and Eddie squirms as Richie's dark eyes bore into him from across the diner. 

"Are you going to get me a coffee or just stand there giving me shit?"

The arrogant tilt of his voice shocks Eddie, making his skin light up. Except it's not with anger, it's something else. Something he doesn't want to think about too closely. Because that tone, coupled with the way Richie's grinning with him, is doing things to his head. 

A small voice at the back of Eddie's head tells him, _no, tell him to leave like you would anyone else._

But his mouth doesn't listen, and he says, "Okay, but I'm not putting on a fresh pot for you."

"I want pie too," Richie says.

Eddie frowns. "You could say please, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Richie's eyes trail down Eddie's legs, the way they always do when he comes to the diner. "What will you give me if I do?"

 _What would you like me to do,_ is on the tip of Eddie's tongue, but he crushes it down before he can say it.

"Just sit down and I'll bring you your coffee," he says instead. 

Richie huffs through his nose. "Sure," he says.

Eddie ends up putting on a fresh pot anyway.

Back in the kitchen, he wipes his hands on his apron, where he feels them break out in a clammy sweat. He tries to steady his hands as he cuts out a slice of some of the banana cream pie they have left, then pours the coffee into a clean mug. As black as motor oil, just the way Richie liked it.

When he walks out of the kitchen, he sees Richie in his usual spot, stretched out in his booth at the back of the diner.

Eddie pauses. Richie's shrugged his jacket off, and in his wife beater his arms look long and strong. He swallows once. Twice. Then pushes through the fog, and gets one foot in front of the other. Luckily Sandy had disappeared out the back, probably in the office to count and lock away the cash they'd made that day, and Eddie hopes he has time to rush Richie through eating his pie and get him out of the diner.

Richie watches him as he walks over, but it's not with the smirk Eddie's used to seeing on Richie. There's a low crackle of energy about him tonight, like the air before a thunderstorm. And Eddie can't help but look at the bruise on his face. How purple it was against his pale face.

"Here you go," Eddie says when he gets to his table, dropping the pie and coffee with a noisy clutter, "but you'll need to be quick."

Except Richie doesn't do anything quickly. Doesn't start eating or drinking his coffee. He just sits there, arms outstretched over the back of the booth, like he has all the time in the world.

Eddie's about to snap at him but his eyes are drawn to the cut on his lip again. 

"What happened to your face?"

Richie's expression remains placid, as he says "What do you think happened?"

Ugh, and since when did Richie have such a good poker face?

"I think you were probably being an idiot and got into a fight."

"I didn't get into a fight. A guy came looking for trouble and I stopped him."

Yeah right. Richie was a hot head. Always had been.

He thinks back to that summer, to the day at Neibolt, when Bill had punched Richie out on the street, how Richie had apparently lunged at him, not stopping until he'd cracked Bill's head hard against the concrete. Bev said afterwards that Richie had been like a wild animal. That it took three of them to pull Richie away. That Bill had been lucky to come away with just a concussion and nothing worse.

Eddie hadn't seen it, but he'd thought about it a lot that summer. How Richie would have looked. The things he might have said to Bill. Had shivered in his room, trailing his fingers across his cast, as he thought about what Bev had said. _He looked wild, Eddie._

He frowns at Richie now. "Sure, whatever. Well eat your pie so we can close up."

He wants to walk away, he really does, but the second he turns around, Richie's hand shoots out and he's tugging him back to the table. He does it with his hand looped around the back of Eddie's apron, curling around the material and tugging him back as Eddie stumbles. 

"Richie, stop it-"

Richie makes quick work of the apron, untying it with quick fingers until it almost falls to the floor. Would if Eddie didn't catch it in time. 

Eddie whirls around to face him, clutching the apron to his chest. 

"What's the big idea, Richie?"

"Just helping you out of your uniform, baby."

The _baby_ hits Eddie right in the stomach. Socks him there and melts, making something warm pool in his stomach. His entire lower half tightening, as if Richie was pulling on a string attached to his insides. He thinks about the implications dripping from Richie's words - _just helping you out of your uniform_ \- and he feels his cheeks flush a bright, embarrassing red.

"Very nice," Richie says. "Those shorts are fucking indecent though. I've seen boys in magazines with more covered up than you."

And what the fuck was that supposed to mean, boys in magazines?

Richie's eyes flicker up to Eddie's hair. "But you can keep the hat on. That's cute."

Eddie snaps at him, "Are you done?"

Richie makes a face like he's thinking about it. His arms fall from the back of the booth to cross at his chest, and Eddie's eyes immediately drink in the width of his shoulders and the long, lean curve of his biceps. Richie had always been a stringy kid - Eddie would joke that he'd been made from noodles, that Richie was the real spaghetti man - but he'd definitely filled out over the last year. He wonders if Richie had been at home secretly lifting weights for the last six months. Or if he'd gained the muscle from all the guys he'd beaten up after school. 

It was hard to get away from Richie's reputation where girls were always swapping stories in the cafeteria and corridors. Like heated urban legends. _Did you hear about the boy Richie put in hospital? Did you hear that he punched him six times? Did you hear that he laughed the entire time?_

"Nah, I'm not done yet. First I want to know if you enjoyed my little tip from last week?"

Eddie feels his nipples pebble under his shirt.

"Richie-"

"Tell me, I want to know if you enjoyed it."

"I enjoyed it, okay?"

Richie tips his head at him, leaning across the table. "I can't hear you Eddie."

"I said I enjoyed it!"

And somehow he had enjoyed it, more than he should have.

All week he'd been thinking about how Richie had slammed the hundred dollar note onto the table. The way he'd plucked it from his pocket like it meant nothing. Like losing a hundred dollars made no difference to him. The way he grabbed Eddie's wrist. The way he told him to shut up.

He'd tried to split the money with Sandy afterwards, wanted her to take half, but she told him not to be silly. She'd finally relented and took 30 dollars, leaving Eddie with 70 whole dollars more than usual, which he took home that night, bundled safely in his pocket as he skated home.

In his room, he'd immediately stuffed it into the money box under his bed - an old, ornate one his dad had given him before he died - where he hid all of his tips from his mom. But every night when he got home, he took Richie's money out of the box and trailed them across his chest, over his nipples and down his collarbone, until he prickled with goosebumps and had to shove the money back under his bed.

He didn't know why he did it. But he couldn't stop. It had become a nightly ritual, something he always did before bed, making him feel loose and fuzzy as he tucked himself in afterwards. The next morning he'd try to pretend it hadn't happened, but it didn't stop him from doing it again.

"Yes, I enjoyed it," he says again, feeling something like shame coil through him. "I already said thanks."

"What have you spent it on?"

"I'm not spending it on _anything_. I'm saving up for college."

Richie's brows shoot up. "Seriously? That's fucking stupid."

Eddie frowns at him, twisting his fingers into his apron. God, Richie was so _annoying_.

"What is it to you if I save it or not."

"I just think it's dumb, that's all. Enjoy it, that's the point." Richie's eyes drift across him again, and Eddie can almost feel the seams in his uniform come apart under his heated gaze. "Besides, I bet a pretty little thing like you can think of some way to spend the money."

Eddie's entire face goes up in flames. 

"Fucking hell, you are precious," Richie says, and he laughs. But there's a mocking, cruel note to it that Eddie doesn't like. 

The sound of it sets him on edge, and he glares at Richie. "You still haven't told me what your job is, you know."

Richie shrugs. "Ah you know. I mow some lawns, help some old ladies with their groceries."

"What, and that gets you hundreds of dollars?"

"I'm very thorough."

"Fine, don't tell me. But I'm not stupid."

"God, you're a regular little Nancy Drew aren't you."

"Just tell me-"

"I said no," Richie says in a low, but deathly firm voice.

Eddie's mouth snaps shut. He felt hazy every time Richie used that voice with him. And he didn't know why - why it felt so good to obey, why he did it so easily - all he knew was that Richie used that voice with him and all he wanted was to do exactly as he was told.

"That's better," Richie says. "Now I've got a proposition for you. How would you like to make another big tip?"

Eddie feels dread cut through the warm buttery haze.

"What do you mean?"

Richie grins toothily at him. "I mean I'll give you another hundred dollars right now if you do something for me."

Eddie swallows, his nipples so hard under his shirt he knows they have to be visible through his uniform.

"What do you- what do you want me to do?"

Without missing a beat Richie says, "I want you to sit on my lap and feed me this pie."

Eddie feels his world tip sideways. He thinks he forgets to breathe. All he can hear is a roaring in his ears, and all he can see is Richie's smirk. 

"You want me to _what?_ "

Richie doesn't look like he appreciates the question.

"Have you gone deaf?" Richie points at his lap. "I said come sit here and feed me the pie."

Eddie reels back. "Are you kidding me? You want me to sit on your lap right here in the diner?"

Richie lifts a shoulder in a shrug, like he'd just asked Eddie what the weather would be tomorrow. "Yeah, that's right."

Eddie can't help but scowl at him. Because Richie was always up to something. He _was_.

"Is this some kind of prank? Are all your asshole friends waiting outside ready to take pictures as soon as I do that?"

Eddie sweeps his eyes around the diner, half-expecting to see Richie's friends hiding behind a booth or at the door about the burst in. All of them ready to laugh at him and call him names. When he looks back at Richie, he's staring at him with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. 

"Eds, cool your jets. What kind of fiend do you think I am?"

"Cut the bullshit, Richie. Nothing's ever simple with you."

Richie rolls his eyes. "If I wanted to prank you, I would have done it by now, okay?" 

Eddie curls his fingers tightly into the apron. "Why?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you want me to sit on your lap anyway?"

"You think I'm just going to give you a tip that big for nothing? You need to work for it, Eddie." Richie leans forwards, and in a move that has Eddie parting his mouth on a quiet little gasp, runs his fingers along Eddie's leg. "Besides, it's not like you haven't sat on my lap before."

"Richie, that was _different_."

And it was different. The last time Eddie had sat on Richie's lap had been years ago. When they would cuddle up in the hammock and read comics together. Richie would always put on one a variety of his ridiculous voices, making Eddie giggle, their legs entwined as they read. Sometimes they even fell asleep like that, dozing together in the warmth of the clubhouse until one of the others woke them up.

Other times, when they were at Bill's or Ben's, Richie would pull Eddie onto his lap like he was a doll. Get his hands around Eddie's waist and just _tug,_ until Eddie had no choice but to sit on him. They'd sit like that for hours, Eddie nestled in Richie's lap, as Richie nuzzled the back of his neck and sneaked his hand under his t-shirt. The contact had been electrifying, had made his entire body fizzle like popping candy. Especially when Richie mouthed at Eddie's neck wetly, like a wolf cub, and Eddie had to elbow him and tell him to knock it off in a breathless voice.

But they had been 12 at the time. They were childish little acts of friendship. They were older now. Things were different. 

Besides, anyone could walk in and see them. And what would they think, seeing Eddie sitting on Richie's lap, feeding him pie like some little pampered servant. Like one of the stupid girls who fell all over themselves to talk to Richie at school. 

Eddie lifts his chin at Richie, even as his heart thumps so hard it feels like it could burst out of his chest. 

"I'm not doing that. You can keep your money," he says, in a firm voice. One that still quivers at the end.

And Eddie thinks that will be it, except he doesn't look phased one bit.

Instead he stretches his arms above his head, lazily, and says, "How about I make it one fifty? One hundred and fifty dollars for you to sit here and feed me my pie. Pretty good for something that'll only take you 10 minutes."

Eddie stares at him for a second, the insane number bouncing around his head.

"No way," he breathes. "No way do you have that kind of money."

Richie grins at him again, folding his hands behind his head. "Oh yeah? Wanna bet?"

"No."

But Richie's not listening because he's shoving his hand into his pocket, and Eddie has to look away, because something about the tendons popping in Richie's arm and the way he arches his hips off the booth to slide his wallet out of his jeans pocket, is making him feel dazed. Like the afternoon he drank too much punch at the Denbroughs' summer barbecue and had to sleep it off on the couch in the den. 

"Here you go," Richie says, sliding a handful of notes out of his wallet. "One fifty, as promised." 

Eddie stares at the money in Richie's hand: three crisp fifties laid out for him to see.

And it hits him how much money this was. That he'd make more in 10 minutes than he'd make in an entire shift at the diner. How could he resist?

"Okay," he says, voice a tremor. "But I want the money before I do it."

Richie laughs. "A tough negotiator, huh? You can have half first, how about that?"

"Fine," Eddie says tightly, grabbing the money as soon as Richie's slid it across the table. 

He looks at Richie awkwardly, wondering how the hell he's going to do this. Was he expected just to clamber onto his lap? And which way would he do it? Sitting sideways, with his back to Richie's chest. Oh god, Richie didn't expect Eddie to straddle him, did he?

Richie's voice cuts through the anxious fog. "Eddie, baby, it's really not that hard, come on."

"Sorry, how do I-"

Richie scoots over to the edge of the booth, facing Eddie. He pats his lap. 

"Just like this, kitten."

Eddie stares at him, feeling a horrified expression creep onto his face.

Richie drums his fingers on the table. "I've got all the time in the world, you know, but I think you mentioned being on a timer?"

"I hate you," Eddie says, as he inches closer.

"I know. Now hop on board."

With a look towards the register to make sure Sandy wasn't standing there, Eddie does what he's told.

He edges closer and before he can think about what he's doing, sits himself down. He does it gingerly, biting down on his bottom lip as he feels Richie's jeans under his bare legs, trying not to lean all his weight down as he settles himself lightly on Richie's lap.

But that obviously isn't what Richie wants because he makes a huffing sound in the back of his throat. 

"Christ, I said _sit on me_ , come on," Richie says.

With a hard tug, he pulls Eddie against him. Eddie gasps, but he isn't strong enough to keep himself upright, and he ends up dropping all of his weight onto Richie's lap, half falling against him. But Richie just pulls him close, until Eddie's shoulder and arm are flush with his chest. 

"That's it, isn't that better?" Richie says, curling an arm around his waist. 

Eddie doesn't say anything. Can't with how dry his mouth is. Like a desert has crept in. Because Richie feels warm and Eddie's ass is flush with his pelvis. He thinks about all the girls who have probably sat on this lap. How many girls Richie's pulled down just like this, in his car, in the park, so he can grind up against them as they make out. He feels himself go pink again, his thighs prickling where they rub against Richie's jeans.

"Speechless, Eds?" Richie asks, with a laugh in his voice. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Eddie swallows down some of the dryness. Manages to say, "Shut up and let me get this over with."

With shaking hands, he picks up the fork and breaks off a piece of the pie.

When he turns to face Richie, he gasps at how close they are. So close Eddie can see each one of Richie's eyelashes. How chapped his bottom lip looks. Each hair in his unkempt eyebrows. The purple bruise at his mouth, so stormy in its intensity. 

He can't remember the last time they were this close. Maybe when they were still kids. In the days after the clown.

Richie opens his mouth for the fork, his eyes dark and sly. 

Eddie brings the fork up, willing his hand not to shake, and Richie's tongue curls out wetly to pull the piece of pie into his mouth. He makes an appreciative noise as he chews and he keeps his eyes locked with Eddie's the entire time. 

When he swallows, his eyes dart across Eddie's face, catching on all the places Eddie knows are flushed pink.

"Come on," Richie says, tightening his hand on Eddie's waist. "More."

So Eddie does as he's told. Little by little he feeds Richie the pie, cutting off a small piece with the side of the fork and bringing it to Richie's mouth for him to eat. He wants it to be over as soon as possible, but Richie - that bastard - takes his time, slowly chewing and swallowing, his eyes never leaving Eddie's, all the while making these small, throaty noises. And Eddie doesn't know why but they sound _lewd._

And that's not the only thing.

As Eddie feeds him, Richie's hand starts to slip from his waist down to his thigh. Eddie stiffens, his hand tightening on the fork, but Richie doesn't do anything at first. Just rests his hand there, then rubbing gently at the material as Eddie tries not to have a breakdown.

He bucks hard when Richie's fingers slip under his shorts. "Richie-"

Richie tightens his grip on Eddie. In a low voice he says, "Don't stop. I didn't say you could, did I?"

"No," Eddie breathes, cutting off another piece of the pie.

Richie strokes his hand a little higher, his entire hand disappearing up Eddie's shorts.

"God, you're so little," Richie breathes against his ear. "Sometimes I forget how fucking small you are."

"'m not that small," Eddie says, in a trembling, breathy voice he's never heard himself make before.

"You're tiny. Like a fairy. Do you fold your wings up under your shirts?"

And Eddie wants to snap a retort back, wants to push himself off Richie's lap and tell him to fuck off. He does. But the bottom of his stomach has gone molten, his nipples are so hard they ache, and he's started to feel hazy and limp, like he's spent too long out in the sun. 

He notices suddenly that all the pie has gone. All that's left are some crumbs and a small mound of cream.

"W-we're done," Eddie stutters.

"No, not yet."

Reaching around Eddie. Richie scoops the cream up with his thumb. 

"Here you have a bit," he says, and before Eddie can jerk his head away, rubs it across Eddie's bottom lip.

Eddie immediately sucks his lip into his mouth, the sugar and cream exploding on his tongue. He almost moans from the taste, and maybe from the look on Richie's face as he watches, his eyes focused on Eddie's mouth where his tongue peeks out to lick the cream away.

Richie smiles at him. "You look good with cream on your face," he says.

And it should sound ridiculous, but Richie's low tone and the picture it paints are enough to make Eddie pant.

He squirms on Richie's lap, pulling at the arm Richie has around his waist. 

"It's time to close, I should-"

“Now reach into my pocket and take out a cigarette.”

Eddie goes hot at the command.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here, Richie.”

Richie arches an eyebrow, and Eddie doesn’t like the mean smile that snakes across his mouth. Like a cat about to get a mouthful of canary. 

“Oh no? Well why don’t you come out to my car with me? We can continue where we left off in there.”

An image of the two of them whips through Eddie's head, as bright as a neon sign. Of Richie leaning back in the backseat, Eddie on his lap, lighting his cigarette for him, the cigarette which hung from Richie’s lips, Richie's hand squeezing his thigh, which is blossoming as purple as Richie's lip.

“I- I can’t-" his words cut off as Richie grip's on his waist goes bone-tight.

Eddie arches in his lap with a pained gasp.

"Richie-"

“I don’t like the word can’t, Eddie,” Richie says and Eddie can't help his pained moan.

Richie's expression softens slightly at the noise, and he resumes his soft petting. 

"Come on, baby," he says in a low, throaty voice. One that makes all of the nerve endings in Eddie's body zing. "You know you want to."

"I- I don't."

Richie looks at him for a moment. Like he has X-ray vision; like he can see through Eddie's clothes and his skin, right into the centre of him.

"Yes, you do," he says calmly. "I know you do."

And Eddie knows he can't resist that voice. He doesn't know why but he just _can't_.

"I-"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Eddie jerks his head round to see Sandy standing a couple of tables down staring at them. 

She looks shocked, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene in front of her. And he knows what it must look like. The two of them canoodling in a corner of the diner, Eddie's ass pressing down on Richie's crotch, his bottom lip dark pink from sucking on it. 

"Shit-"

He tries to pull himself off Richie's lap, but Richie's arms are like two iron bands around his waist.

"We're talking," Richie says to Sandy, like she hadn't just caught him with his hand up Eddie's shorts. 

"We're closing," she says. "So let him go right now."

"Nah, I don't think so. He likes it here."

"Richie," Eddie says, pulling at Richie's arm again. "Stop it, let me go."

Richie nuzzles at his ear, making Eddie go limp again.

"I'll let you go if you come out to my car with me," he says, his hot breath making Eddie quiver.

"He's not going anywhere with you," Sandy says, her blue eyes icy. "I said let him the fuck go."

Richie cuts his eyes at her like she's nothing more than a ball of fluff. "Blondie-"

That's when Eddie stabs his nails as hard as he can into Richie's arm. 

Richie yelps, dropping his arm from Eddie's waist. Eddie uses the second of freedom to hurl himself off Richie's lap. Sandy reaches out for him and tugs him to her side, staring at Richie like he's a rabid dog that's just bolted from its kennel. 

"Fucking spitfire," Richie says, rubbing his forearm, where Eddie's nails had left a cluster of crescent moons. "Forgot you played dirty."

"Now you can leave," Sandy says, so brave and beautiful, bolstered from a lifetime of standing up to men. "And if you come in here to harass Eddie again then I'm going to ban you."

"Harass him? He came to me willingly. I didn't force him to do anything."

Sandy points to the door. "Just get out."

So Richie does. He slips out of the booth and shrugs his jacket back on, but he does it slowly, making the two of them wait. 

And that's when Eddie sees it: the knife tucked into an inner pocket in Richie's jacket. It glints sharply against the leather, and Eddie sucks in a breath. It's sharp and long, the kind of knife someone would use to go hunting. To slit a pig's throat, or strike the fur from a deer.

Or maybe he used it on the guy who'd got up in Richie's face tonight. The thought almost makes Eddie buckle.

Richie tips a $10 note onto the table. "That should cover it, yeah?" 

"Yes, that's fine," Sandy says.

Richie then places the rest of Eddie's promised tip down. "Enjoy it," he says.

Eddie opens his mouth, but the words evaporate. 

"What part of get out don't you understand?" Sandy asks. 

Richie gives her a cool look. "The point where I have to listen to a stupid blonde bitch," he says. 

Anger sparks in his belly, and Eddie says, "Don't talk to her like that, Richie! Just go, okay? Please, just go."

"It's cool, I have shit to do anyway," Richie says.

He plucks a cigarette from his pocket as he brushes past Eddie, the smell of leather and cedarwood making Eddie feel faint.

"Asshole," Sandy hisses as the door slams behind him, leaving the two of them alone in the diner again. 

When she looks back at Eddie, it's with an expression he's never seen on her before.

"What were you thinking?" she asks. 

"I don't know, I- he offered me another tip so I-"

Sandy makes an exasperated noise. "So you sat on his lap and fed him pie?"

Eddie swallows, shame coiling through him. When it was put into words like that, it didn't sound normal at all.

"I just thought it was an easy way I could make some more money."

But he knows, deep down, that that's a lie. It was more than that.

"And what's it going to be next time? Make you jump through hoops for him like a show dog?"

Eddie fiddles with his apron, no idea what to say. Would he do something like that? Two weeks ago he would have laughed if someone told him he'd sit on Trashmouth's lap. But he'd done it tonight, as soon as Richie had waved some money in front of him. What did that make him?

He feels Sandy's soft fingers on his face, drawing his chin up to look at her. 

"Baby, I just worry about you," she says gently. "I told you he's dangerous. I don't like him."

"He's an asshole, Sandy. That's it. He loves making fun of me. Has done ever since we were kids."

Sandy shakes her head. "I don't know if it's just that. I saw the way you looked when you were sitting on his lap."

"What do you mean?"

"You looked... I don't know, like drugged. You had this glassy look in your eyes. I was so scared, I thought he'd slipped you something."

Was that true? Had he looked that out of it?

"I just, I don't want to sound like your mom okay, but I don't think you should see him again. He's not good for you."

"I don't _want_ to see him. I don't ask him to come in every weekend."

Sandy fixes him with one of her stares. The one she always gave teens who came in for pancakes, pretending they weren't high out of their minds.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes," Eddie says, wanting it to be true. "I don't."

"Well next time he comes in, I'm kicking his ass out."

"Okay," Eddie nods, suddenly feeling drained. He looks at the money on the table. "Hey, do you want to share his tip with me?"

Sandy hesitates for a second, but shakes her head. "No, it's yours. You deserve it after putting up with him."

Eddie nods, taking it and stuffing it into the pocket of his shorts. He wants so much to be out of here, away from Sandy's sad, knowing eyes.

"I'm gonna get out of here."

"Do you want a ride home?"

"No, I'm fine. I've got my rollerskates."

"But it's so late. Let me drive you."

"Really, I'm fine. I want the fresh air anyway."

"Okay," Sandy says softly, drawing some of Eddie's hair behind his ear. "Look after yourself okay? And call me if you need anything?"

"I will," Eddie says, letting himself be drawn in for a hug. "I promise."

Sandy's only a couple of inches taller than Eddie, and her hair smells like coconut and lime. He thinks suddenly of Bev. Of the hugs they would share as children, that summer when the clown came, when Bev was the only one he could talk to about his mom before she moved away.

His eyes prickle, sharply, with tears.

"I'm really sorry he called you a bitch," he says into Sandy's shoulder. "He shouldn't have done that."

"Oh sweetie," Sandy says, stroking a hand down his back. "I've been called a whole lot worse."

Ten minutes later, Eddie's got his skates on and he's hurtling through Derry all the way home. There aren't many people out at this time - only the drunks falling into bars downtown, and teens getting high in the woods, making s'mores and getting baked on sticky, shared joints. 

A couple of times Eddie feels that prickling sensation at the back of his neck - the one he thought he had when he was being followed - but every time he stops on his skates and looks around, there's no one there. He shivers under his thin jacket, and skates on again. 

By the time he gets home, it's almost midnight. He finds the key under the mat and lets himself in, greeted by the harsh glow of the TV in their sitting room. A late-night game show is on, and the house is filled with the loud cackle of the host and the disappointed groans of the audience when a contestant gets a question wrong. His mom, passed out and bulging in her night dress, doesn't hear him come in. 

"Mama," he says, as he unties his skates at the front door. "I'm home."

She doesn't answer, too busy snoring in her armchair. 

In the kitchen, Eddie remembers suddenly that he forgot to bring home the apple-pecan pie. Disappointment curdles in his stomach. There's only so much a handful of crackers or chips could do when all he wanted was the sweet ooze of caramelised apple under flaky pastry. His stomach bites at him with hunger, and he quickly makes himself a sandwich using some leftover peanut butter and a loaf of bread that's started to stale. 

"Mama," he says, after he's cleaned up and back in the living room. He shakes her gently awake.

She startles, looking at him groggily. "Eddie?"

"Yeah, it's me. We need to get you to bed, okay?"

"You're so late. I didn't know what time you were getting home."

"I told you I was working the late shift, remember? I said I'd be back late."

He helps her out of the chair, though she's almost three times the size of him, and he buckles a little under the weight of her arm around his shoulders. People would ask him sometimes how he took after his mother. Where she was hulking and angry, Eddie was small and soft. But he knew he took after his dad. He's only seen a couple of photos of him, but he knew he'd been a shy, willowy man who didn't speak often. 

"I don't like you working at that diner," Sonia says, as they make their way up the stairs. "I don't like it at all."

"Mama, we've talked about this. It's good money."

"But it's so far out of town, and I know the people who go in there. Drunks. Layabouts. Working girls. You should get a job closer to home."

Eddie sighs. "It's fine, mommy, I'm careful. Besides, I like working there."

"Why can't you do anything to make me happy?"

A sliver of guilt pierces Eddie. She always did this. Was always trying to make him feel bad. But it doesn't mean it didn't work sometimes. 

He helps her to bed, submitting to her usual kiss and helping her take her glasses off.

"You're still my boy, aren't you, Eddie?" she asks as he tucks the covers around her. "You're still my Eddie Bear?"

"Of course, mommy, always," Eddie says, forcing himself to smile in a way that didn't look pained. 

He hadn't told her yet about wanting to go to college. Hopefully somewhere out of state. Had never told her about the low, aching hunger he felt every night to experience something different. How much he hated Derry and couldn't wait to leave. He didn't know how he'd ever tell her.

Undressing in his bedroom, he realises his uniform smells like Richie. He shoves it down into his wash basket before he can bring it up to his nose.

He's in the shower when the feeling comes back. The molten one from before, when he was sitting on Richie's lap. 

Richie's sharp smile comes into his head. How it felt when he put his hand up Eddie's shorts. What would he have done if Sandy hadn't interrupted them? Would he have pushed it higher? And what would he have done if Eddie had gone to his car with him?

Eddie's head sparks with a reel of lurid pictures, like a movie at a porno theatre. As he thinks, once more, about getting in the backseat with Richie, of pulling the cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it for him. Maybe Richie would have blown the smoke in his face, his hand all the way up Eddie's shorts. Maybe he would have called Eddie some mean things too, saying, _How did a sweet boy like you get so fucking naughty?_

Eddie moans as his nipples go instantly hard, and he trails a hand down his stomach, biting down on his bottom lip. 

But then he remembers - Richie crushing that boy's hand; Richie making fun of him every day at school; Richie and all his friends laughing as he walked past them in his shorts. And he whips his hand away from his stomach like he'd just touched a hot stove.

He can't do this. He can't think about Richie like that. He shouldn't be thinking about _any boy_ like that.

He makes a little whimpering sound in the back of his throat, and turns the water to cold.

Back in his room, feeling chilly and dejected, the first thing he sees is the money Richie had given him, crumpled in a small pile on his bed. 

150 dollars to sit on his lap and feed him pie. 

He breathes out heavily through his nose and puts the money away in the box under his bed. After a summer spent working at the diner, he'd made a lot of tips, but nothing compared to the money he'd made from Richie over the last couple of weeks. 

Catching himself in the mirror, as he stands nude by his bed, he thinks about the other secrets he has hidden in his room. Because Eddie has another nightly ritual, but it's one that's gone on for a lot longer than Richie's been coming into the diner. 

He peeks his head out of his room and looks at the door to his mom's bedroom. He can hear her snoring across the hallway; he knows he's safe.

Hidden at the back of one of his drawers, far back where his mom wouldn't find it, Eddie takes out a small bag. It's a bag containing a bundle of clothing. There wasn't a lot in there - a couple of tops, a pair of knee-high socks, a necklace with a teardrop-shaped quartz crystal.

And this was the reason he couldn't let his mom find it. Because these were girl's clothes. Things he'd been secretly buying with the money he made from the diner for the last couple of months. Slipping into shops in town where no one was looking and walking along the aisles under the guise that he was shopping for a cousin. The ice cream pastels and heavy perfumes of shops like this had called out to him for years. But it had only been when he started making his own money that he had swallowed down the lump in his throat and let himself walk in.

He fiddles through the bag, wondering what he should wear tonight. He finally settles on a peppermint-green camisole.

It was so pretty, made from a soft cotton, with delicate little straps fringed in lace. He slips it over his head, relishing how soft it feels compared to all of the boys' clothes that he owns. And he can't help his little gasp as he looks at his reflection.

In the mirror, Eddie's transformed. His buttery brown skin looks soft. As supple as cocoa butter. His exposed shoulders are small, delicately framed by the camisole's lacy straps. And the mint green, so different to any colour he'd worn before, makes him look like he's been draped in sea foam. Like he was a mermaid. Something that shimmered on a moonlit beach. 

He stands there for a few minutes, drinking himself in. 

It wasn't vanity that made him present himself in front of the mirror every night. It was more like amazement. Because he didn't look like himself. He didn't look like a boy, he didn't look like a girl. But he didn't look like Eddie Kaspbrak either. Not the boy with the weakened immune system or the boy who had to take medication every day, making sure he kept his fanny pack with him at all times so he didn't miss a dose. Not the boy who Sonia had carted off to hospitals and different doctors for his entire childhood, convinced something was wrong with him, even as the doctors assured her that no, everything was fine, Eddie was just small for his age. 

Eddie stares at himself, and he sighs, stroking his fingers through the straps until they hang off his shoulders. In the way that he's seen women in magazines wearing their dresses, the straps hanging delicately off their shoulders like a string of pearls.

He wonders what Richie would say if he knew Eddie liked doing this. If he knew that Eddie had a small collection of clothes he put on every night. If he knew that Eddie wanted so much more. That he'd been looking at socks with pretty, frilled edges, and laced brogues you could wear with jeans or skirts. That what he wanted, more than anything, was to know how it felt to slip on a pair of girl's soft white panties.

The thought spikes through him, making his mouth drop open. In the mirror opposite he sees the way his face changes. How wanton he suddenly looks. How needy and open. He remembers what Sandy had said back at the diner. _You looked like you were drugged._

After a few minutes he reluctantly takes the camisole off and folds it into the dark space at the back of his chest of drawers. He changes into one of his loose night t-shirts, an old one he used to wear for sleepovers when the Losers would gather round in the dark and tell each other scary stories.

As he slips into bed, he thinks of Richie again. 

He thinks of Richie, and he thinks of his knife.

And maybe if he slides a pillow between his thighs in the middle of the night, and slowly rocks his hips against it, no one needs to know. 

Eddie spends his Sunday lazily: reading in his bedroom, doing his homework, picking at whatever food they have left in the house.

In the afternoon he skates into town to pick up some groceries, doing his best not to look at the man who leers at him from an alleyway, the little way he says, "Hey baby," as he lifts a bottle of cheap wine to his mouth. It hits Eddie with a memory of the clown, the way he would transform into different predatory shapes. For him it had always been older men with dark hair and wide, charming smiles, asking him if he wanted to come inside, if he wanted to get on his knees, maybe learn how to use that pretty mouth of his.

Back at the house, he wears the camisole again for a little while, hugging his thin arms around himself. Though he throws it off when Sonia calls up the stairs for him to come down for dinner, his heart pounding a mile a minute as he bundles it back up and shoves it out of sight.

He spends the rest of the evening picking at a TV dinner and watching her soap operas with her, trying not to think about what Richie was doing.

Monday comes too quickly and not quickly enough. 

Unfortunately, Richie is the first thing he sees when he gets to school. Or more specifically, Richie and all his moronic friends.

They all smoke a little way down from the school, by the fringe of trees leading into the woods. And every morning Eddie is forced to walk past them, keeping his head held high as they laugh at him and call him names, their hyena laughs following him all the way to the school entrance. 

That morning, it's Taylor who sees Eddie first, elbowing Richie, where he's hollowing his cheeks around a cigarette. 

"Hey, Kaspbrak, how much dick did you suck this weekend?" Taylor crows at him. 

The girls with them giggle. One, a freckled brunette with ripped tights called Hayley, is hanging off Richie's arm.

She calls out, "We can give you some tips if you like," before laughing and snapping her bubblegum. She's the one who's been rumoured to be dating Richie. Though Eddie wasn't sure if Richie actually dated, or if he just fucked every girl who looked at him. 

"Poor baby's shy," the second girl says, a bleached blonde with a nose ring.

"Maybe he's just lost his voice from all that dick-sucking," says another boy with a messy mohawk. 

Richie's the only one who doesn't say anything, hanging back and smoking his cigarette, though his eyes burn through Eddie as he walks past.

He's at his locker getting his books when he feels someone behind him. A taller, looming shape. 

"Can you just get lost?" he says over his shoulder, his fingers digging into his textbook. 

He can't deal with Richie after the weekend he just had. He just can't.

"Er, Eddie, are you okay?"

But that voice isn't Richie's.

Eddie spins around, a smile lighting up his face.

"Bill," he says, as the other boy grins down at him. 

Eddie didn't know why, but seeing Bill still made something inside Eddie flutter. Because Bill still had the kindest smile he'd ever seen. And while he didn't stutter half as much as he did as a child, he still spoke slowly, like he was feeling the words in his mouth before he said them. Where Richie looked like he'd grown too tall for his bones - a long, loping creature, reminding Eddie of wolves that walked on their hind legs in fairytales - Bill looked sturdy and solid. Like someone you could lean on. Plus, Eddie had to admit he was pretty cute too.

"How's it going?" Bill asks.

"I'm good," Eddie says. "Sorry I snapped at you, I thought- I thought you were someone else."

"That's okay, I kinda crept up on you."

They stand there staring at each other for a moment, the air between them slightly awkward.

Eddie and Bill didn't talk much these days. There had been too much hurt after the Losers Club crumbled, too many arguments and accusations that had been left unhealed, especially when Richie had been kicked out and all the strings tying them together had dissolved like old stitches.

Bill, who'd been staring at Eddie, seems to catch himself, blinking rapidly for a second. 

"I just wanted to ask if you wanted to come to the baseball game next Friday?" he asks, running a hand through his hair. He looks bashful, and Eddie has no idea why. "We're playing a home game and hoping to smoke the other team."

"Well that shouldn't be hard with you on the team, Billy," he says, falling into the old nickname like a second skin.

"That's sweet, Eddie," Bill says, his eyes bright and warm. 

"I mean I could go," Eddie says, even though he never goes to sports games. "It sounds like it could be fun."

"Yeah! And Mike might come along too."

That makes Eddie's ears prick up. "Mike, really?" He hadn't seen Mike in years. 

"Yeah," Bill says with a grin. "And it would be great if you were there too. I mean if you," his smile goes bashful again, "if you want to, of course."

"I'd like that," Eddie says, feeling suddenly shy. 

"Cool, nice one," Bill says.

They stand there looking at each other again, and for a second all of the years peel back, to the best friends they once were. All the way back to the day Bill had held Eddie's hand in the playground when they were five-years-old and said he liked Eddie's turtle lunchbox. 

"Erm, so I guess I'll catch you in assembly?" Eddie says.

"Yeah, okay!" Bill says in a rush. "Catch you later, bye."

"Bye," Eddie says, lifting his hand in a wave even though Bill was standing right in front of him.

Bill gives a little laugh and he waves back, before he's slipping away into the stream of kids making their way to the assembly hall. 

"Smooth move, Kaspbrak," Eddie says to himself, getting the rest of the books he needs, and slamming his locker closed.

Eddie makes his way slowly to the assembly hall, hanging back so he doesn't have to push through the horde of students shoving their way into the room. Every Monday morning all of Derry High piled in. Always for some lecture from their principal about the importance of doing well at school or being moral citizens. Maybe that was important for a town with one of the highest death rates in Maine. 

Today they were going to watch a documentary about drunk driving. Eddie hoped that being in the dark surrounded by the other students would make him forget about Richie. Maybe seeing the lurid details about crashing your car would be enough to blot out the memory of sitting on his lap.

Eddie looks out for some people from band to sit with, but doesn't see anyone, so he makes his way down a row near the back of the hall.

As everyone bustles into the room, he takes the opportunity to look over his English homework, when someone kicks the back of his chair.

Eddie spins around with a glare, about to tell whoever it was to knock it off, when he sees who it is. 

Richie.

"What-"

"Fancy seeing you here, Shortcake," Richie says as he settles back.

Richie has his denim jacket on today; the dark, oversized one, with a band t-shirt underneath. Some obscure punk band that Eddie's never listened to and knew he never would. And then Eddie sees who's sitting next to Richie. Todd, one of the most popular jocks at their school. 

Great, he was sitting in front of Derry High's two biggest assholes. It must be his fucking lucky day.

How he was friends with Richie, Eddie had no idea. Though he suspected it had something to do with the drugs and girls they shared. 

Todd notices him staring and says, "Want to take a picture, Kaspbrak?"

"No thanks," Eddie says, turning round to face the stage.

It's loud in the assembly hall from everyone chatting and horsing around, but Eddie can still hear snippets of conversation going on behind him.

"And then what did she do?" Richie asks. 

"Fucking climbed on me like an animal, bro, she couldn't get me inside her fast enough."

Eddie's eyes widen. His cheeks burn red. Were they really talking about-

"No fucking shit, but she acts so timid."

"She wasn't timid when she was grabbing my dick."

"What are her tits like?"

"Kinda small, I like them bigger. Sarah Morgan has better tits."

"Yeah, I remember. Really bouncy."

"Can't fucking believe she let you do that. Bitch wouldn't even go down on me, but she lets you fuck her in your car."

Eddie shifts, feeling the anger blossom inside him. Why the hell were they talking about this _here_?

"Faye's pussy was good though. Really fucking tight."

"Not after you've fucked her, I bet."

Eddie can't take it anymore. He whips around in his seat and says, "Do you fucking mind?"

The two boys stare at him, their conversation stopping short, and Eddie flushes. 

Todd may have been an asshole, but he was a gorgeous one too. Blonde, tall, broad-shouldered. An A-class student and homecoming king, with a line of girls queuing up around the block to go on a date with him. And he had a sparkling, mocking smile that made people weak at the knees. Richie didn't have the same classical good looks, but there was something strange and striking about him that made girls quiver too.

"Consider it a lesson," Todd says, so big and broad in his Varsity jacket. "I bet you've never even seen a pair of tits in real life."

"Nah, Eddie's too innocent for that," Richie says. "Aren't you, baby?"

"Is that right?" Todd says. "Never wanted someone to rough you up a bit, Kaspbrak?"

Eddie feels the bottom of his stomach drop, doing that oozy, woozy thing it did at the diner. 

"Just shut up," he says, as he turns around again, trying not to listen to the way the boys snicker behind him. 

"I love virgins," Todd says to Richie. "So fucking easy to rile up."

Eddie grits his teeth, wondering if he has time to find a seat somewhere else, when the kid next to him gets his seat kicked. 

"Hey, what's the big idea?" the boy says as he spins around in his seat.

He pales visibly when he sees who's sitting behind him. 

"Move, I'm taking your seat," Richie says.

The boy just stares at Richie with his mouth open. "W-what?" 

Richie leans in, an unpleasant smile on his face. "I said fucking move."

The boy flies off his seat like a bullet, and Todd grins as Richie climbs over the seat to fall down next to Eddie. 

"Asshole," Todd says with a grin, making Richie flip him off behind his back. 

"Hey," Richie says to Eddie, as he lounges back, legs spread. 

"Hi," Eddie says stiffly, not looking at him, doing his best to arch his body away from Richie.

"How's it going?"

"Better if you wouldn't talk to me."

Richie ignores that, saying, "I had something I wanted to ask you."

Eddie shoots him a suspicious look. "Ask me?" 

That's when the lights blink out in the auditorium, their teachers hushing all of them as the documentary starts.

Richie's silent for a moment as the film starts, but after a second he's leaning in to Eddie's space. Eddie tries to ignore him, focusing his eyes on the projector screen on stage, but his eyes flutter when he feels Richie's breath against his ear.

He didn't smell nice exactly - like cigarette smoke and something woodsy - but it made his nerves flare all the same.

"So I wanted to ask you if you wanted to hang out with me on Saturday night," Richie murmurs. 

Eddie feels his entire body lock up. "What?" he says a little too loudly, making a couple of older students look around and frown at him. 

He can almost feel the grin on Richie's face. "Keep it down, Eddie. Don't want to interrupt the movie, do you?"

"Richie, just shut up and watch it!"

"So can I take you out on Saturday?"

"No!"

"But it could be fun." 

Eddie suddenly feels Richie's fingers on his leg - and god, he should really stop wearing shorts to school. Richie isn't shy about the touch. In under a second, his entire hand is spanning Eddie's small thigh, squeezing it like he's testing the firmness of a ripe peach.

"I thought we could get something to eat and go see a movie," he says.

"We're watching a movie right now," Eddie says, feeling his sanity fray at the edges.

"Brat," Richie says, and it sounds like he wants to laugh. "So what do you think?"

"I think you're insane. No way would I ever hang out with you."

Richie's silent for a moment, and Eddie thinks that will be it, but then-

"I'll make it real fun for you," he says, his long fingers skittering across Eddie's thigh. "We'll have such a nice time together, you'll see."

Then he grabs Eddie's leg. He does it hard, his fingers dimpling the skin, nails digging in sharply.

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, trying not to buck. He grabs at Richie's hand, trying to wrench it off, but Richie is strong and he doesn't budge.

Richie leans in so close they're flush together, and when he talks again, his voice sounds low and dangerous. "That's what you get for digging your little kitty claws into me at the diner. Don't think I won't mark you back for any mark you leave on me."

"Richie, don't-" 

Eddie wonders suddenly if Todd is watching the entire interaction from behind them, and feels mortified.

"Just tell me, do you want to hang out with me on Saturday?"

And a yes is on the tip of Eddie's tongue. He feels it against his lips, can hear himself saying it. But he catches himself before he can. No fucking way would he ever choose to hang out with Trashmouth Tozier. The boy who'd done nothing but mock and sneer at him for the last three years.

"I said _no_ ," Eddie hisses.

The next second, he's grabbing his bag and shoving his way down the row of students, refusing to look back at Richie to see his reaction. He ignores everyone's annoyed groans as they push their knees to the side to let him pass. At the door he makes an excuse to the teacher that he doesn't feel well, and she reluctantly lets him out, knowing what a good student Eddie was.

It's not like Eddie would ever do anything bad.

Eddie half-runs to the nearest bathroom. Inside, a red-hot blurt of anger has him throwing his bag onto the floor. He gets a momentary rush from the loud thud of it, from the way all his books and pencils spill out, but then he deflates like a balloon, his bottom lip wobbling as he kneels down to pick everything up. At the sinks, he splashes some cold water onto his face, and his fingers go bone-white as he clutches the sink, hating how pink his cheeks are, how black his eyes look. He looks like he's high, and something about that frightens him. 

Did he always look like this around Richie?

"Fuck you," he says. Though he doesn't know whether he's talking to himself or to Richie. 

He spends the rest of assembly in a cubicle, hunched against the door as he trembles. It's only when the bell rings, and everyone starts streaming out of the assembly hall, does he let himself leave, joining the flow of students as they make their way to their first class.

He doesn't see Richie for the rest of the day. He doesn't see him at lunchtime - though he never usually does, as Richie goes out to smoke or drink by the bleachers - and he doesn't turn up for their English class afterwards, his desk lying empty while they talk about _Wuthering Heights_.

"Mr Tozier's absent again, I see," their teacher says as she goes through the register.

"I can write notes for him, Miss," a preppy redhead called Jessica says, leaning against her desk eagerly. 

_Bitch_ , Eddie thinks viciously, and then instantly hates himself for it. 

He spends the rest of the class being nice to Jessica, even pairing up with her for an exercise, but the whole time he keeps glancing at her breasts, where they strain heavily against her tight blouse, and wonders if they're the kind of ones Richie likes. 

That makes Eddie think about Richie's mouth on them - how he'd suck and maybe bite at her pink tits, feeling their shape in his hands as she moaned his name, maybe as she rode him, like Richie said that other girl had - until suddenly Jessica transforms into Eddie.

Eddie blinks the image out of his head and spends the rest of the class feeling sick.

Eddie always has band practice on a Monday. So after his last class of the afternoon is over, Eddie drops his books and his messy notes off at his locker and makes his way back to the auditorium, slinging his flute case along with him. 

Lucy, a sweet, dark-haired girl who played the violin, sees him when he gets inside and waves him over. 

"Hey Eddie," she says, in that sweet, serene way she had. 

Eddie smiles, and they launch into talking about their weekends as they get ready for their music teacher, Mr Wilby, to arrive. 

As Eddie's recounting how his day went at the diner - and the disaster that Leroy's experiment was when he tried to put cheese into a sweet pie, _like can you believe that?_ \- Lucy's eyes drift to something behind his shoulder.

"What is _he_ doing here?" she asks, frowning. 

Eddie turns and his stomach drops. Richie was sitting near the front row, his long legs slung over the seat in front of him. 

"He's so weird," Lucy says, distaste in her voice. "I hate him and all of his stupid friends." 

"Yeah, they're pretty gross," Eddie says.

Lucy shoots him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I know you used to be friends with him."

"It's okay," Eddie says, awkwardly twirling his flute. "We haven't been friends in a long time."

They're interrupted by Mr Wilby, who hurries down the aisle with a pile of music sheets in his hands. He frowns when he sees Richie.

"I didn't know you had musical aspirations, Richie," he says. "I remember you having as much interest in learning an instrument as a piece of wood."

Richie shrugs. "Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the raw talent," he says, his dark eyes fixed on Eddie.

Mr Wilby doesn't look convinced. "You can stay, but don't cause any trouble. And feet on the floor, you're not an animal."

"I don't know about that," Lucy whispers to Eddie, as Richie rolls his eyes and shoves his legs off the chair.

But Richie has no intention of being quiet. As soon as Eddie steps up for his solo, flitting nervously on stage as he raises the flute to his lips, Richie gives a long, low wolf whistle. The sound makes Eddie's entire body run hot and tight, making him think of prey animals caught in traps.

"Yeah, baby," Richie says in that throaty voice of his, "suck on it."

Mr Wilby turns and snaps his fingers. "That's it. Out now."

Except Richie doesn't move an inch.

"Did you hear what I just said? Out now or I'm giving you detention all week."

Richie sighs and stands up. He's half a foot taller than Mr Wilby, and Eddie can see the way the teacher pales slightly at how long and lean Richie is.

But Richie just gives a quiet, "Whatever," before he's loping out of the auditorium. 

"Resume, Eddie," Mr Wilby says when he turns back to the stage, not quite managing to keep the nerves out of his voice.

Eddie feels rooted to the spot, hands frozen on the flute as he stares at Richie's retreating back.

"Eddie?"

"Sorry, yeah, I'm okay," he says.

He botches his way through the entire practice. It's his worst performance since joining band, and Mr Wilby asks him, pained, if Eddie had even been practising at home. Eddie assures him he has, but spends the rest of the time ashamed and pink-cheeked on the side of the stage.

Lucy consoles him afterwards as they pack up their instruments. 

"Don't be hard on yourself, Eddie. I'd be off my game too if that idiot was whistling at me like that."

Eddie shrugs. "He just likes messing with me."

"Yeah, but why?" Lucy says, nose scrunching in confusion.

"I don't know," Eddie says as he busies himself with putting his flute away.

 _Because he hates me for choosing Bill over him_ , he wants to say. _Because we fought a child-eating monster together when we were 12 and now we're all fucked in the head._

But Eddie doesn't think Lucy will quite understand that, so he stays silent. 

Lucy stays behind to wait for a friend, asking Eddie if he wants to stay too so they can go for milkshakes. Eddie awkwardly declines, the thought of having to fake his way through a playdate with Lucy's girl friends filling him with dread, but Lucy just smiles and says she'll see him tomorrow.

The second Eddie walks out of school, he wishes he stayed behind. Because the first thing he hears is a tell-tale hyena laugh and he freezes.

Hanging out by the road are Richie and his hooligans - a blur of pale skin and leather, and the sneering, high-pitched laugh he only associated with them. Hayley's there again, hanging off Richie's neck as she cranes up on her tiptoes to nibble on his ear. Richie's arm hangs loosely around her waist, and Eddie has no idea why, but he has a sudden, spitting urge to rip Hayley away by her messy ponytail and tell her to fuck off. 

He tries to quietly walk past them without being seen, but Richie locks on him instantly. 

"Need a ride, Eddie?" he calls out. "Little things like you shouldn't be walking around at night."

"Get lost," Eddie says, going red as they all laugh at him. 

"Suit yourself," Richie says, "but you might want to look out for Butch Hawkins up there."

Eddie stops dead. Butch Hawkins was a 300-pound redneck boy who loved to get drunk and pummel the first person he came across. All their teachers said he had anger issues, but Eddie knew that translated as being a psychotic oaf who loved the feeling of mashing people's faces in. 

And there he was - Eddie could see Butch a little way down the road, garbling to himself, his arms thick and meaty beneath his flannel.

He didn't think Butch had ever touched someone as small as Eddie before, but he didn't want to find out.

"All you need to do is say the word, Eddie," Richie says behind him, alongside the titters of his friends. 

Eddie swallows. There wasn't any time to catch a ride with anyone else from band. And he couldn't call his mom to come and get him.

"Okay," he says quietly.

"What's that?"

"I said okay."

"What's the magic word, Eddie?"

Eddie shifts from one foot to the other and says, "Please."

"Come here then."

Eddie turns and walks toward the group, his face pointed down at the road so he didn't have to look at them. When he's a couple of feet away, he looks up and can't help but twitch at the way they all leer at him, like a gang of hungry jackals peering out of the gloom at a small rabbit.

"It's very sweet that your mom still buys your clothes for you, Eddie," Hayley says, her painted fingernails digging into Richie's jacket.

Eddie looks down at what he's wearing: his powder-blue bomber jacket with a polo, denim shorts and white tennis shoes. 

"Hayley?" Richie says to her, though his eyes are still fixed on Eddie.

She looks up at him with a dopey expression. "Hmmm?"

"Shut the fuck up."

The smile falls off Hayley's face. "I didn't - I was just teasing," she says.

"I don't give a shit. Just shut up." He turns to the others. "I'll see you later."

Taylor, the moron with the nose ring, says, "Dude, really? The little fag can get the bus."

"Yeah, really. I'll drive him home and catch up with you later."

"But we were going to-"

"Just shut up."

They all instantly fall silent, making Eddie frown. It was like Richie was their king and they were all his little minions. 

"Come on," Richie says to Eddie. "My car's over here."

Hayley hangs back, looking hurt. She scuffs her boot into the ground instead of saying goodbye.

"Erm, thanks," Eddie murmurs as they make their way to Richie's car.

"No problem," Richie says. "I'd hate to see a pretty thing like you get pummelled into mince meat."

The inside of Richie's car smells like him. Like cigarettes. Like patchouli. Like the cedarwood cologne that clings to Richie's clothes. It makes him think of a bonfire in the forest, surrounded by the tall, dark columns of trees. Deep in the woods, in its darkest centre. 

"Buckle up, baby, I like to drive fast," Richie says, as he starts the car. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but puts his seatbelt on anyway, looking out the window so he doesn't have to see Richie's face. 

Richie glances at him as he drives away from school. "You're brave getting in here. What makes you think I won't kidnap you."

"Yeah right," Eddie says.

"Really? You don't think I could sacrifice you to the dark gods of Derry?"

"I actually don't think you're that interesting, Richie."

That punches a surprised laugh out of Richie. 

"Why were you at band practice?" Eddie asks. 

"Thought I'd go and support you."

Eddie stares at the side of Richie's face. "Are you joking?"

"Do I look like I'm laughing"?

They spend the rest of the journey in silence. Which is good because Eddie spends the whole ride trying to swallow down his nerves. It's stupid, he doesn't know why he's nervous around Richie of all people, but it doesn't stop him twisting his fingers in his lap, or bouncing his foot anxiously. 

When Richie turns onto his street, Eddie stops him. 

“Can you drop me off down the street? A little way down from the house?"

“Why, you don’t want mama dearest seeing me?”

“You know what she’s like.”

Because Richie did. Sonia hated Richie and always had. Even before he became one of Derry High's most dangerous delinquents. 

“How is Mrs K anyway?" Richie asks as he parks up a couple of houses down. "Does she miss my dick?”

Eddie makes a face at him. “Richie, you're so gross."

"Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, Duchess."

"Don't call me that either," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. 

"Maybe you could make a list for me. Things you like and dislike."

"That would be easy. The entire dislike column would just have you on it."

Richie gives him one of those slow smiles, like an ooze of molasses. "And here I was thinking we were becoming so close."

"You're deluded, Richie."

"Am I?" Richie leans into Eddie's space, making him jerk back towards the door. "I think you liked sitting on my lap on Saturday."

And it slams into Eddie again. The feel of Richie's jeans under his legs; how his big hand had crept up his shorts. How it must have looked to Sandy when she found them: Eddie panting as Richie squeezed his hand around Eddie's naked thigh; Eddie a second away from grinding down on his lap.

"I didn't like it, you forced me."

That makes Richie chuckle. "Forced you? You sat on my lap like you belonged there."

"No I didn't, shut up."

Richie doesn't bite back for once. Instead his eyes drift to Eddie's hair. "Your hair is nice like this," he says.

"I just haven't had a chance to get it cut yet," Eddie mumbles as he fiddles with his jacket.

He doesn't mention that he'd been making that excuse for weeks. That he liked it longer, how soft it felt. In his secret box, he also had a silver-handled, soft-bristled brush, and every night before he went to bed, he sat in front of his mirror and brushed his hair out. 

"You should grow it even longer," Richie says.

Eddie makes a face at him. "You know I'm just going to shave it all off now that you've said that, right?"

Richie laughs again. "You fucking brat."

Eddie can't help but smile too, though he chews on his lip to stop it getting bigger.

Richie's eyes catch on his mouth. "I can't remember the last time you smiled at me," he says.

Eddie shifts under the heat of his gaze. "Don't get used to it."

Suddenly Richie's hand is at his mouth. Eddie jerks in surprise but before he can ask Richie what the hell he's doing, Richie's rubbing his thumb roughly over his bottom lip, making it catch and draw away from his teeth.

“Christ, you’re pretty,” Richie says, absently like he's daydreaming. “You’re the prettiest fucking boy in Derry.”

Eddie ducks his head shyly, trying to move his mouth away from Richie's thumb. 

“Boys can’t be pretty,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah right. Why do you think all the girls at school are jealous of you?”

Eddie gives him a sharp look, but Richie doesn't look like he's making fun of him. 

“They’re not-”

“Yes,” Richie says, as he pinches Eddie’s lip, making him wince, “they are.”

"Ow, Richie, _don't_."

“Fuck, I forgot how responsive you are," Richie says. 

Eddie, somehow, finds the strength to get his hands up to push at Richie's shoulders. Even though he knows Richie is stronger than him. 

That's when Richie's jacket falls open and he sees it: the same knife from the diner, glinting savagely against the dark denim. 

"Oh my god," he blurts.

"What is it?" Richie glances down. When he looks up it's with a smile. "Oh right, my knife."

"Why do you carry that around with you?" Eddie says, hating the way it comes out like a moan.

"You don't need to be scared," he says with a crooked smile. "Besides, I'd use a much smaller one on you."

Whatever Eddie's face does next makes Richie laugh, putting all his sharp teeth on display.

"Can you relax? You're so nervous. Really, I'd only use it on you if you asked."

"Shut up, Richie," Eddie says, but his voice has lost all of its steel. 

Richie's face turns contemplative. "You know I think about that night sometimes. That first night we got out of the sewers. You curled up in my arms all night after we went to the lake, you were such a peach."

Eddie instinctively clutches his arm, the one he broke in Neibolt, which suddenly goes white hot with prickles. 

"I can't talk about it, I told you already."

Richie doesn't respond. He leans back to get a cigarette out of his pocket, expression smooth and impassive.

And Eddie can't help but ask, “Why do you keep coming into the diner?”

“I told you that already. I wanted to see you.”

“After not talking to me for three years?”

The face Richie makes at him then can only be described as a snarl, his top lip curling up from his teeth.

“I wasn’t the one not talking to you. You all booted me out of the club remember?”

“That wasn’t my choice," Eddie says, and it wasn't.

“No I know. Denbrough. He hated me after that summer.”

"I mean... you did beat his head in, Richie."

"That cunt was asking for it. Leading us into that house. Almost getting you killed."

Eddie lets out a little gasp. He can't help it. This is the first time Richie's ever admitted he did that because of Eddie.

"You- you did that for me?"

Richie's face softens a fraction. "Of course I did."

Eddie doesn't know what to say. He just wants to be out of this car more than anything. Away from the smell of leather and cedarwood. Away from Richie. And away from the hunting knife in Richie's jacket, which glimmered every time Richie's jacket hung open.

What had he even been thinking anyway, getting into a car with him like this?

"Come on," Richie wheedles, "hang out with me on Saturday."

"No way," Eddie says, shaking his head.

"Why the hell not?"

"You know why." And Eddie can't help the churlish little way he says, "Besides, I thought you'd be with your girlfriend."

"Who?" Richie says blankly.

"Richie, you know who I mean."

"Hayley? I'm fucking her, I'm not dating her." Richie's tongue sneaks out to wet his lip. "Though I guess you wouldn't know about that."

God, what a fucking _asshole_.

"What the fuck? You know what, fuck you," Eddie spits. "Stick your offer up your ass, dickhead."

He’s got his hand on the door handle when he hears Richie behind him.

“Eddie.”

“What?"

“I expect payment for giving you a ride.”

Eddie looks over his shoulder at him. “What?” he asks again.

“That’s right. You think I drive everyone around Derry?”

“But you- you said it was okay. You’re the one who offered!”

Richie shrugs. “Sure. I’m a sweet guy like that.”

“I don’t have any money on me.”

“I don’t want money.”

“Well what the hell do you want then?”

“I want a picture.”

Eddie goes completely still. “A picture?”

“Yeah. I see you with that Polaroid camera all the time, it should be easy for you.”

“What kind of picture?”

The subsequent smile on Richie’s face has Eddie’s stomach tightening in dread.

“Oh, I think you can take a nice picture for me. Something I can put in my wallet.”

“You want- you want a picture of _me_?"

"Yeah. Unless," Richie's eyes sweep over him, "unless there's something else you'd prefer to give me?"

Eddie feels frantic as he shakes his head. "N-no, a picture sounds fine."

"Good boy," Richie says, and Eddie feels that woozy feeling start to come over him again. The one from the diner.

"I need to go inside now," Eddie says, fighting the haze. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure, don't want to keep mommy up worrying, right?"

Eddie doesn't answer, just gets his bag and his flute case, and opens the door. He feels instantly better the moment the cold night air hits him, slicing through some of the haze, but the warmth and smell of Richie's car sticks to him, like fingertips pulling him back into a dark lake.

He's about to close the door behind him when Richie says, “Oh and Eddie? Make it good for me, yeah? Make it worth my time.”

Eddie can only nod as he closes the door behind him, half stumbling down the street, his skin buzzing. 

Mom's already in bed when he gets home and the house is dark and silent. He's relieved. He doesn't think he'd be able to hide the feverish sheen on his skin, or the way he's breathing heavily, like he'd just run all the way home. 

He finds his way back to his room by muscle memory, not bothering to turn any of the lights on. 

As usual, his Polaroid camera is nestled in the drawer by his bed. He used it for innocent little things usually, to snap a picture of a butterfly on his windowsill, or sometimes bringing it to the diner to take pictures of Sandy as she smiled behind the pie counter. He'd never used it on himself before, and he chews on his bottom lip as he wonders how he should look in the picture and what he should wear.

Richie's words come back to him, _make it good for me._

Eddie feels that ooze of honey trickle over him again - the haze - and something else, something daring and a little cocky. He'd make it good for Richie, he'd make it so good that dumb smile would fall off his face immediately. He'd show that asshole that he wasn't some shy fucking virgin.

That's how Eddie ends up in front of his mirror, peeling his jacket and his polo off. Until he's baring his slim chest - the jut of his ribs, and the round pink of his nipples - to the mirror. It's how he ends up with the Polaroid camera aimed in front of him, and how he snaps a picture of his face and chest, his teeth digging into his bottom lip like he's seen girls do in magazines. 

He shivers as the picture pops out of the camera and he shakes it with trembling fingers until the picture starts to appear. He sees a flash of skin and the flushed pink of his cheeks and lips, before he's slamming the photo down, too nervous to look at it. 

He breathes out heavily through his nose and makes his way shakily to the bathroom.

Under the hot blast of the shower, Eddie's skin buzzes. He can't believe he actually took a picture like that. A picture one of Richie's girlfriends would have taken for him, a picture that looked _dirty_. The word makes him moan and he gets so dizzily hard he thinks he might fall down. 

A moment later, Eddie has a hand around himself and he's bucking up into it as the hot water beats down on him. It's not the first time he's done this, but it's the first time he's let himself think about Richie. Because he can't help it, he _needs_ it. He scrambles at that locked door in his head and a second later all of the images and sensations from the last couple of days knock into him: Richie's cruel smile; the way his jeans felt against Eddie's legs; the way he called him baby; the sliver of his knife inside his jacket, how it glimmered with the promise of a sharp, slicing kiss. 

"Richie," Eddie moans, as he presses his cheek to the wall, hips arched backwards so he can fuck into his fist.

It doesn't take long at all. Just a minute after he's started, Eddie feels his orgasm build. He reaches up to rub his nipples with his free hand, and when a little voice says to him, _how would Richie do it?,_ he twists it cruelly between his finger and thumb, until he's whining from the sting.

Eddie's orgasm hits him like a gunshot. He wonders how Richie would look if he could see him now; what mean, mocking expression would be on his face as he watched Eddie fuck his fist, so desperate for it his dick was already oozing at the tip, and Eddie's coming. It's hard and messy, right up against the shower wall, and Eddie moans Richie's name as he does, babbling it the entire time like he's gone stupid in the head. 

The force of it makes Eddie buckle, his knees giving out. He falls heavily to the shower floor, gasping, his belly and hand covered in come. 

Eddie sits there for a long time, until the hot water runs cold and he's clutching his knees to his chest. When the haze has evaporated and Eddie's caught his breath, he gets out of the shower, trying not to think about what he just did. Even as the adrenaline rush he got from taking the picture starts to sour from shame. He avoids his reflection in the mirror, not wanting to know what strange little beast would look back at him. 

Back in his bedroom he risks a glance at the picture. What he sees makes him drop his towel to the floor. 

The boy in the photo was Eddie, but it was an Eddie he'd never seen before. His eyes were so dark they didn't look human and the expression on his face dripped with need. His fat bottom lip was snagged between his teeth, and on his chest his nipples were a hard, dusky pink.

It was Eddie Kaspbrak all right, but one from another world. Not the little mama's boy from Derry with all his various ailments and conditions who played flute in his high school band. This was a boy you saw in videos, the dirty ones Eddie had overheard older men talk about sometimes at the diner when they thought he couldn't hear. This was someone who looked like a slut.

 _Make it good for me_ , Richie had said to him.

Eddie wonders, as he stands in his bedroom surrounded by his clothes and stuffed toys, if the picture would surprise Richie. Or, as he watched Eddie with those dark eyes in the seat of his car, if he knew exactly what Eddie would come home and do to please him. 

"God Richie," Eddie says, as the photo falls from his fingers. "I hate you so much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, the tension, am I right?
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who kept asking me for a third chapter! I only continued because of all the incredible support and enthusiasm for this little fic. I hope it was worth the wait, and I promise that it won't be so long before I post the next chapter.
> 
> So much amazing art has also been made for this fic! I haven't figured out how to embed links on ao3 because I only have one brain cell which I use for writing, but once I do I'll be adding all of it! 
> 
> As always, please feel free to talk to me on tumblr at shortcake-kaspbrak xo


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